WHISPERS 


WHISPERS 
ROSY 

A  RUNAWAY  WOMAN 

Illustrated  by  George  Wright 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  DESERT 

BONNIE  MAY 

Illustrated  by  Reginald  Birch 


THE  SANDMAN'S  FOREST 

Illustrated  by  Paul  Bransom 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


WHISPERS 


By 

LOUIS  DODGE 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK     ::::::     1920 


T,  1080,  ar 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Published  April,  1920 


TO 

JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 


2135884 


CONTENTS 

/ 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    WHAT  THE  MOON  FOUND i 

II.    ONE  OF  OUR  MASTERS 10 

III.  "THE  MAN  is  HERE!" 16 

IV.  THE  LOST  TAVERN 24 

V.    THE  TAVERN'S  GUEST 31 

VI.    A  HAND  THAT  TREMBLED 39 

VII.    THE  CONFEDERATE 50 

VIII.    THE  Two  JOURNALS 57 

IX.    A  NEW  LODGER 64 

X.    CAPE  COMES  IN 72 

XL    ESTABROOK  WONDERS 85 

XII.    IN  THE  PLACE  OF  MASKS 90 

XIII.  A  TALK  WITH  CAMPBELL 103 

XIV.  "THE  DRUMM-CASE — ESTABROOK"       ....  114 
XV.    THE  SPIDER  AND  THE  FLY 125 

XVI.    THE  WEAVING  OF  THE  WEB 138 

XVII.    THE  FLY  APPEARS 149 

XVIII.    THE  FLY  ENTERS 162 

XIX.    THE  TERMS  OF  THE  TREATY 172 

XX.    ESTABROOK  SHOWS  His  HAND 182 

XXL    SETTING  THE  STAGE .     .     .  188 

XXII.    A  COMPACT  WITH  THE  CHIEF 193 

XXIII.  "PIECES  OF  EIGHT" .     .     .  201 

XXIV.  SOMEBODY  BLUNDERS 209 

XXV.    A  SUMMONS  FOR  ESTABROOK 220 

XXVI.  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  MORGAN  FORD  ROAD     .     .  229 

XXVII.    INTRODUCING  MR.  CRADDOCK 238 

XXVIII.    WHAT  THE  MORNING  BROUGHT 245 

XXIX.    CONCLUSION 257 


WHISPERS 

Chapter  I 
What  the  Moon  Found 

THE  small  back  room  of  the  shop  was  so  still 
that  the  ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  wall — • 
a  small,  quick-spoken  thing  of  nickel — was  like 
the  sounding  of  an  alarm,  or  an  agitated  voice 
uttering  a  warning.  A  tedious  sound  by  day, 
made  little  by  the  rumble  of  traffic  on  the  street, 
it  now  possessed  a  quality  at  once  sinister  and 
urgent. 

The  street  was  deserted.  The  shops  were 
closed  and  dark  save  for  the  night-lamps  which 
burned  dimly  in  the  mean  little  temples  of  trade 
along  the  thoroughfare.  Half  an  hour  ago  a  po- 
liceman had  passed  along  the  pavement,  peering 
through  the  grimy  windows,  trying  the  doors.  He 
had  made  sure  that  no  one  was  stirring.  Later, 
far  down  the  street,  his  stick  on  the  pavement  had 
shattered  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

In  the  back  room  where  the  clock  ticked  a  man 
sat  alone.  His  elbows  rested  on  a  table  of  a 


Whispers 

dark,  heavy  wood,  and  his  face  was  supported  by 
his  hands.  A  single  incandescent  light,  protected 
by  a  green  shade,  was  suspended  above  the  table. 
It  cast  a  circle  of  illumination  on  the  dark  wood 
of  the  table  and  on  a  very  old  book,  curiously 
illustrated  with  wood  cuts,  which  the  man  was 
reading.  The  figure  of  the  man  was  outside  that 
circle  of  illumination  and  was  absorbed  by  the 
shadows  which  hung  thick  in  the  room. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  ticking  of  the  clock  which 
presently  disturbed  the  solitary  occupant  of  the 
room — who,  it  might  also  have  seemed,  was  the 
solitary  occupant  of  the  building,  of  all  the  build- 
ings on  the  street.  At  any  rate  there  was  a  noise- 
less movement.  The  man  lifted  slightly  from  his 
stooped  attitude.  He  removed  his  eyes  from  the 
book  before  him.  He  permitted  one  hand  to 
descend  until  it  lay  on  the  table,  within  the  circle 
of  light. 

If  the  Book  of  Life  had  been  as  open  to  him  as 
the  ancient  volume  he  had  been  perusing,  that 
hand  which  now  lay  within  the  circle  of  light — the 
only  living  thing  visible,  and  it  scarcely  suggest- 
ing the  warm  impulses  of  life — might  well  have 
fallen  into  an  attitude  of  surrender,  of  relinquish- 
ment.  Or  it  might  have  been  lifted,  for  once  in 
its  existence,  with  a  gesture  of  supplication  or 
prayer.  For  it  was  written  that  that  hand  should 
lie  cold  and  rigid  in  death  within  the  hour.  * 

But  the  Book  of  Life  is  not  an  open  book  to 

2 


What  the  Moon  Found 

any  man ;  and  so  it  was  that  the  hand  on  the  table 
made  known  no  hint  of  contrition  or  humility. 
Rather  it  expressed  the  ruling  passion  dwelling  in 
the  brain  which  controlled  it.  It  was  a  slender 
hand,  long,  colorless — and  grasping.  It  was  the 
hand  of  Sothern's  Shylock.  The  fingers  turned 
slightly  at  the  ends,  covetously,  acquisitively — all 
save  one.  The  little  finger  lay  straight.  It  was 
held  so  by  the  long  nail,  which  thwarted  the  in- 
clination to  curve. 

That  nail  was,  obviously,  a  matter  of  freakish 
pride.  It  was  like  a  talon.  It  was  slender,  dis- 
colored, a  little  ghastly.  It  represented  the 
growth  of  years — and  how  much  of  painstaking 
care,  of  proud  display,  of  petty  boasting! 

For  a  moment  the  pale  hand  with  its  talon-like 
nail  lay  within  the  circle  of  light;  and  then  it  was 
withdrawn  with  startling  swiftness. 

No  need  to  ask  of  the  man  who  sat  alone  if  he 
had  been  suddenly  alarmed.  The  fact  was  plain. 
Out  of  the  oppressive  silence,^ broken  only  by  the 
ticking  of  the  clock,  there  had  been  the  sound  of 
a  footfall. 

The  sound  of  a  footfall;  and — more  discon- 
certing still  to  the  man  who  heard  it — in  a  region 
which  should  now  have  been  a  slumbering  void. 
It  was  on  the  floor  above,  in  a  room  which  was 
seldom  entered  by  day  and  never  by  night,  where 
certain  old  articles  were  stored. 

The  man's  body  had  become  rigid,  his  pulses 
3 


Whispers 

were  pounding.  His  head,  lowered  as  if  a  blow 
was  about  to  fall,  turned  slowly  this  way  and  that. 
He  listened  with  painful  intensity.  Minutes 
passed,  and  with  them  the  first  shock  of  agonized 
terror. 

It  could  have  been  no  footfall,  after  all,  he  re- 
flected. A  distant  shutter  must  have  swung  in 
the  wind.  Somewhere  in  an  adjacent  house  a 
door  must  have  been  caught  in  a  draft.  Or  per- 
haps a  homeless  vagrant  had  passed  along  the 
street.  There  was  nothing  in  the  storeroom 
above  to  attract  thieves.  There  was  no  way  to 
reach  that  room  at  night  save  by  the  fire-escape, 
descending  to  the  dark  alley.  And — most  reas- 
suring of  all — there  was  no  repetition  of  that 
muffled  sound. 

The  man  began  to  breathe  naturally  again,  his 
heart  ceased  to  pound.  He  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  surveyed  the  shadowy  spaces  surround- 
ing him.  Through  the  doorway  connecting  with 
the  front  of  the  shop  he  caught  the  faint  gleam 
of  glass  surfaces:  the  fronts  of  certain  cabinets 
in  which  rows  of  fantastic  faces  looked  out  fix- 
edly. These  constituted  part  of  the  stock  of  the 
shop,  which  was  a  costumer's  shop.  They  were 
painted  masks. 

Droll  or  comic  by  day,  they  achieved  a  kind 
of  ghastly  lifelessness  at  night.  Their  rosiness 
paled;  their  grimaces  suggested  agony;  the  eye- 
holes were  black  as  those  of  a  huma'h  skull. 

4 


What  the  Moon  Found 

In  other  cabinets  fantastic  costumes  were  hung: 
the  costume  of  a  Spanish  cavalier,  of  a  monk,  of 
Harlequin  and  Pierrot,  of  a  seer,  of  a  sorceress, 
of  a  gipsy,  of  a  hangman.  And  though  many 
of  them  held  a  laughing  suggestion  by  day  of 
secret  delights  and  transgressions  and  revelries, 
they  all  hinted  darkly  at  night  of  the  end  of  all 
things,  which  is  vanity. 

Yet  to  the  man  in  the  back  room  they  hinted 
at  none  of  these  things,  but  only  of  easy  profits, 
and  the  follies  of  youth,  from  which  calculating 
age  may  reap  a  benefit  in  gold,  and  of  a  discreet 
system  of  excessive  profits  exacted  from  those  who 
came  to  rent  his  wares. 

The  back  room,  too,  was  given  over  in  part 
to  the  costumer's  stock.  The  wigs,  the  toupees, 
the  false  beards  and  mustaches — they  were  here. 
And  most  impressive  of  all  the  costumer's  col- 
lection was  the  complete  set  of  armor,  with 
gleaming  gauntlets  and  visor  and  shield  and  sword 
and  all,  which  had  its  place,  very  like  a  medieval 
warrior,  at  the  foot  of  the  narrow  staircase  which 
ascended  to  the  storeroom  on  the  floor  above. 

Here  the  knight-like  figure  stood  by  day  and 
night,  with  a  certain  spurious  gallantry  which  was 
dissipated  easily  enough  when  a  careless  or  curi- 
ous customer  touched  it,  and  elicited  the  tinkle  of 
tin,  and  set  the  whole  frame  to  vibrating  in  a 
way  which  proved  that  it  was  but  a  hollow  shell. 

Yet  just  now,  while  the  shadows  of  night  filled 

5 


Whispers 

the  room  and  the  silence  was  unbroken,  the  spuri- 
ous knight  almost  created  the  illusion  of  reality, 
of  severity,  of  guardianship. 

The  man  in  the  room  turned  once — "as  he  was 
required  to  do — to  note  the  reassuring  presence 
of  the  armored  knight,  and  then  his  mind  became 
at  peace  again.  He  had  no  cause  for  fear.  On 
the  contrary,  he  had  every  reason  for  self-con- 
gratulation. He  was  making  handsome  profits 
day  by  day.  The  world  was  full  of  fools  to  whom 
gaiety  was  a  kind  of  disease.  Nothing  had  power 
to  check  their  folly.  Though  the  world  might 
be  coming  to  an  end  they  would  dance  and  pos- 
ture and  romp — and  pay  the  fiddler.  Nothing 
checked  his  progress  along  the  pleasant  path  of 
prosperity.  The  fools  would  continue  to  bring 
their  contributions  to  him  though  the  world  were 
coming  to  an  end. 

Though  the  world  were  coming  to  an  end.  .  .  . 

The  knight  in  armor  at  the  foot  of  the  stair- 
way, just  outside  the  closed  door  leading  to  the 
upper  storeroom,  underwent  a  mysterious  change. 
He  seemed  to  expand,  to  become  alive.  And  yet 
he  did  not  move.  And  almost  immediately  he 
resumed  his  former  status:  that  of  a  lifeless  and 
rather  absurd  figure. 

The  momentary  transformation  was  due  to  a 
reflected  light.  The  door  behind  him  had  opened 
very  slowly,  very  slightly;  but  in  moving  it  had 
caught  the  rays  of  light  from  the  lamp  in  the 

6 


What  the  Moon  Found 

room  and  had  reflected  them  upon  the  bright  ar- 
mor. And  then  by  almost  imperceptible  degrees 
a  face  had  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

A  face- — yet  scarcely  a  face.  The  vague  out- 
lines of  a  face,  occupying  a  position  so  high  that 
it  remained  quite  obscure  in  its  place  among  the 
other  shadows.  Indeed,  one  would  have  guessed 
that  the  face  was  there  only  because  of  the  un- 
mistakable outlines  of  feet  on  the  sill,  and  by  a 
darkly  luminous  hint  of  staring  eyes  at  the  alti- 
tude where  one  might  have  expected  to  find  a 
face. 

The  man  at  the  table  heard  nothing.  But  hu- 
man beings  who  thrive  on  the  folly  and  gaiety  of 
youth,  and  are  pleased  to  do  so,  are  sometimes 
possessed  of  a  sense  other  than  the  original  and 
common  five.  Prescience  is  the  word  usually  em- 
ployed when  this  sense  is  in  mind — as  if  anyone 
had  ever  yet  clearly  defined  that  word. 

Prescience  it  may  have  been :  or  perhaps  a  real- 
ization that  the  temperature  of  the  room  had 
changed,  or  that  a  draft  had,  been  liberated, 
or  that  the  odor  of  disuse  from  the  storeroom 
above  had  penetrated  the  room.  At  any  rate  the 
man  at  the  table  became  suddenly  and  dreadfully 
alarmed.  The  thought  of  that  muffled  footstep 
returned  with  renewed  and  increased  terror.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  faced  about.  So  conscious 
was  he  of  looming  disaster  that  he  would  have 
screamed  for  help  within  the  moment. 

7 


Whispers 

But  it  was  too  late  now.  The  door  leading 
to  the  upper  floor  was  flung  wide  open.  An  ob- 
scure figure  was  purposefully  advancing  toward 
him. 

The  costumer  was  no  longer  a  young  man,  yet 
he  was  capable  of  great  agility  of  movement. 
Moreover,  at  that  moment  terror  lent  swiftness 
to  his  limbs.  A  single  step,  a  noiseless  movement, 
and  the  light  above  the  table  had  been  extin- 
guished. But  the  intruder  had  marked  his  loca- 
tion, even  as  the  light  was  extinguished. 

For  an  instant  the  drama  between  the  two  men 
in  the  dark  was  suspended.  Then  there  was  the 
sound  of  a  blow.  There  was  a  groan,  so  short- 
lived that  it  ended  in  an  almost  tranquil  sigh.  A 
chair  was  overturned;  a  human  body,  collapsing, 
pitched  headlong  to  the  floor.  There  was  a  move- 
ment of  feet;  a  tramping  and  creaking  on  the 
stairs,  an  echo  overhead.  And  then  there  was 
silence,  a  terrible  silence,  broken  'only  by  the 
nickel  clock  which  went  on  ticking  monotonously. 

Time  passed:  time,  which  no  longer  concerned 
the  man  who  had  crossed  over  into  eternity.  And 
now  the  shop  seemed  indeed  really  deserted. 

The  moon,  arising  above  a  thousand  city  house- 
tops, entered  upon  an  open  area  and  sent  its 
beams  into  the  shop.  At  first  they  touched  the 
shining  armor  of  the  knight  by  the  doorway. 
They  touched  the  door,  revealing  that  it  was  now 
closed  again,  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

8 


What  the  Moon  Found 

And  then  they  sank  lower  and  lower  against  the 
wall  until  they  were  creeping  along  the  floor. 
Again  time  passed,  its  passing  now  marked  by  the 
progress  of  a  shaft  of  moonlight  across  the  floor. 

The  shaft  of  light  glorified  one  mean  object 
after  another :  faint  colors  in  an  old  rug,  the  legs 
of  the  table,  the  carved  back  of  an  overturned 
chair.  And  then  it  came  upon  an  object  which 
no  power  on  earth  or  in  heaven  itself  could  glo- 
rify: a  dead  man's  hand,  curled  at  the  finger  tips. 
The  moonbeams  touched,  with  a  kind  of  halting, 
perplexed  inspection,  a  nail  which  grew,  curiously 
curled  and  discolored,  from  a  human  finger. 

And  then  at  last  the  silence  was  rudely  shat- 
tered. The  door  at  the  front  of  the  shop  was 
violently  shaken,  and  then  stormed.  The  police- 
man, making  his  rounds  again,  had  peered  into 
the  spaces  where  the  moonbeams  searched  out  the 
silences,  and  he  had  seen  an  elderly  man  lying 
dead  on  the  floor. 


Chapter  II 
One  of  Our  Masters 

HIGH  up  above  the  street,  above  tier  upon 
tier  of  darkened  windows,  a  row  of  lights 
— so  far  above  the  pavement  that  they  seemed 
like  lanterns  in  the  sky — shone  steadily  out  upon 
the  night.  In  one  of  the  rooms  from  which  these 
lights  beamed  a  little  man  sat  at  a  big  desk  alone. 

He  had  stood  at  a  window  a  moment  before, 
looking  out  at  the  picture  of  the  city  at  night. 
Grouped  about  him  were  immense  office-buildings, 
like  gigantic,  perforated  monoliths:  with  a  beam 
of  light  showing  in  some  of  the  perforations.  He 
had  watched  while  one  light  after  another  winked 
out,  and  he  knew  that  when  a  light  was  extin- 
guished it  meant  that  one  more  belated  clerk  or 
draughtsman  or  bookkeeper  had  finished  his  work 
for  the  day  and  was  about  to  set  out  for  home. 
He  felt  an  ironic  contempt  for  those  belated  work- 
ers, whose  tasks  seemed  to  him  humdrum  and 
tedious  and  mean. 

Now  as  he  sat  at  his  desk  he  was  still  pictur- 
ing those  perforated  monoliths,  and  he  was  see- 
ing one  light  after  another  as  it  was  blotted  out. 

10 


One  of  Our  Masters 

He  knew  that  the  great  facades  of  the  monoliths 
would  be  in  total  obscurity  before  long;  and  he 
liked  to  picture  the  belated  clerks  and  other  work- 
ers going  home  with  drooping  spirits  and  per- 
haps with  rebellion  stirring  dully  in  their  souls. 
The  work  of  these  other  men,  he  thought,  was 
inglorious,  ant-like.  No  one's  work  save  his  own 
was  really  splendid.  But  his  own  work — how  all- 
important  it  was!  How  like  it  was  to  the  cap- 
sheaf  and  crown  of  all  other  men's  activities! 

He  occupied  one  of  the  nerve-centers  of  the 
great  city.  There  was  a  telephone  instrument  on 
the  desk  beside  him.  There  was  a  telephone 
booth  over  against  the  wall.  There  were  tele- 
phone instruments  on  a  number  of  desks  which 
were  ranged  about  his  own  desk.  There  was  a 
girl  who,  in  a^n  adjacent  room,  presided  over  a 
switchboard:  who  sat  with  her  fingers  within 
reach  of  a  thousand  wire-ends,  and  who,  with 
an  unsightly  apparatus  about  her  brow  and  ears, 
listened  to  the  voice  of  the  city,  to  the  voice  of 
the  world. 

The  little  man  arose  and  moved  once  more  to 
one  of  the  windows  looking  out  over  the  city; 
and  as  he  stood,  with  his  hands  thrust  deep  into 
his  trousers  pockets,  his  countenance  expressed  at 
once  a  deep  complacency  and  the  cold  pride  of  a 
cynic.  There  lay  the  city  which  he  held  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hand.  Such  was  his  reflection. 

He  leaned  forward  and  looked  down  into  the 
ii 


Whispers 

street,  where  long  lines  of  lights  were  burning 
brightly  and  where  many  vehicles  passed  to  and 
fro.  It  was  ten  o'clock  at  night  and  the  day's 
commercial  traffic  was  finished;  but  the  night  life 
— the  life  of  gaiety  and  pleasure — was  getting 
under  way.  The  vehicles  down  on  the  street  ap- 
peared somewhat  goblin-like;  and  the  pedestri- 
ans who  passed  from  pavement  to  pavement  with 
spasmodic  movements  seemed  strangely  fearful 
and  insignificant.  Yet  they  were  not  insignifi- 
cant to  the  man  who  gazed  down  upon  them.  He 
despised  them — and  yet  it  was  they  who  brought 
grist  to  his  mill.  One  of  them  might  stumble 
and  fall  beneath  swiftly-rolling  wheels  before  the 
night  was  out — and  be  carried  to  the  hospital,  or 
to  the  morgue.  Or  one  of  them  might  even  now 
be  stealthily  going  forth  to  take  the  life  of  one 
of  his  kind;  or  he  might  be  seeking  the  means  of 
self-destruction.  One  might  be  an  inglorious 
Othello,  and  another  an  unsung  Caesar.  That  ob- 
scure figure  of  a  woman  yonder  might  be  a  new 
Desdemona  with  a  crude  lago  by  her  side,  or 
perhaps  a  proud  Cleopatra  of  the  people. 

The  little  man's  lips  curled  faintly  and  he 
mused:  "Among  them  they  will  keep  the  hospi- 
tals filled,  and  the  morgue  occupied,  and  the 
courts  busy,  and  the  wheels  of  commerce  revolv- 
ing— and  so  I  shall  not  want." 

He  was  a  newspaper  man  of  the  old  school, 
Beakman  by  name.  He  believed  in  the  policy  of 

12 


One  of  Our  Masters 

ruling  with  an  iron  hand.  To  him  the  power  of 
the  press  meant  the  browbeating  of  the  friend- 
less, the  exposure  of  the  weak,  the  thwarting  of 
the  ambitious;  it  meant  a  policy  of  conciliation 
toward  the  strong,  of  bargaining  with  the  rich. 

Just  now  he  was  afflicted  with  the  tedium  of 
Alexander.  He  could  think  of  no  more  worlds 
to  conquer.  And  he  leaned  further  out  into  the 
warm  June  air  and  noted  the  flaming  theater- 
fronts  down  the  street,  and  the  distant  tangles 
and  mazes  of  night  traffic  at  a  busy  corner.  Then 
with  a  kind  of  slow  moroseness  he  returned  once 
more  to  his  desk. 

He  had  scarcely  seated  himself  this  time  when 
one  of  the  telephones  in  the  booth  against  the 
wall  rang  sharply,  insistently. 

He  arose  with  a  mumbled  word  of  anger. 
Didn't  the  girl  at  the  switchboard  know  that  he 
was  alone  in  the  local  room  at  present?  And 
didn't  she  know  that  he  had  his  own  phone  there 
on  the  desk  before  him? 

He  went  into  the  booth,  leaving  the  door  open 
behind  him. 

He  took  down  the  receiver  and  in  an  instant 
he  was  listening  to  the  voice  of  Cook,  the  police 
reporter.  "Ah,  Cook!"  he  said;  and  the  sense 
of  tedium  left  him  now.  Manna  was  descend- 
ing from  his  heaven.  He  was  always  glad  to 
hear  from  police  headquarters.  It  so  often 
meant  that  grist  was  coming  to  his  mill. 

13 


Whispers 

He  leaned  close  to  the  instrument.  It  was 
sometimes  a  little  difficult  to  get  Cook's  messages. 
The  police  reporter  mumbled  his  words  as  a  rule, 
and  his  sentences  were  often  incoherent  and  his 
diction  peculiarly  colloquial.  He  was  an  illiter- 
ate man  whose  abilities  were  confined  almost 
wholly  to  a  complete  lack  of  sensibilities  and  what 
Beakman  would  have  described  as  a  sharp  nose 
for  news. 

Beakman's  first  contribution  to  the  conversa- 
tion over  the  wire — after  a  professionally  weary 
"Yes,  this  is  Beakman," — was  one  word,  uttered 
in  a  low  yet  rather  intense  tone:  "Drumm?" 
And  then,  "Old  Pheneas  Drumm,  do  you  mean?" 

He  then  waited  for  Cook  to  proceed,  remain- 
ing silent  save  for  the  repetition  of  some  of  Cook's 
most  highly  specialized  communications — as  for 
example,  "He  was  a  crappie  when  they  found 
him.  Yes.  His  thatch  was  leaking — smashed 
in.  All  right.  A  blunt  instrument.  Yes.  But, 
Cook — hold  up,  Cook !  Get  off  o'  that  blunt  in- 
strument. Yes,  I  know  that's  what  the  police  re- 
port says.  It  always  says  it.  But  we  don't  want 
the  News  to  say  it.  It's  been  said  too  often. 
Now  go  ahead.  Nothing  disturbed.  All  right. 
And — well,  never  mind  the  police  theory,  Cook. 
They  don't  know  whether  it  was  a  vendetta  or 
not.  And  put  that  word  vendetta  up  in  Aunt 
Maud's  room,  together  with  your  blunt  instru- 
ment. You  know  we're  not  conducting  a  mu- 


One  of  Our  Masters 

seum,  Cook.  It's  a  newspaper.  Just  get  at  the 
facts,  so  far  as  there  are  any  facts,  and  put  them 
into  plain  English,  and  not  in  the  jargon  of  the 
police  report.  All  right,  now.  So — they  found 
old  Drumm  dead,  all  surrounded  by  false  faces. 
Oh,  I  say,  Cook — there's  a  touch  for  you,  those 
false  faces.  Be  sure  to  work  them  into  your 
story.  Not  every  assassin  has  the  good  taste  to 
pick  a  background  of  false  faces.  All  right.  Get 
your  stuff  in  as  soon  as  you  can.  Get  a  picture 
if  possible.  The  police  ought  to  unearth  one. 
Good-by." 

Beakman  turned  away  from  the  phone  after 
the  instrument  had  clicked  back  into  the  receiver. 
His  eyes  were  gleaming.  So — the  mill  was 
grinding,  then!  Old  Drumm  murdered — the 
mysterious  old  Pheneas  Drumm,  who  was  re- 
puted to  be  a  miser  and  a  millionaire,  and  who  had 
lived  mysteriously  amid  his  painted  masks.  Old 
Drumm  murdered 

But  the  eager  light  in  Beakman's  eyes  gave 
place  to  a  startled  stare.  He  was  no  longer  alone 
in  the  city  room.  During  the  moment  his  back 
was  turned  an  intruder  had  entered. 


iy 


Chapter  III 
"The  Man  is  Here!" 

INTRUDER  is  the  word  which  occurred  to 
Beakman,  though  scores  of  persons,  even 
strangers,  might  have  entered  the  office  without 
intruding.  But  the  young  man  who  had  made  his 
appearance  had  brought  with  him  a  certain  air 
of  aloofness,  and  he  was  behaving  in  a  manner 
so  extraordinary  that  Beakman  might  have  been 
excused  for  staring  at  him  in  amazement  and  with 
a  puzzled  question  in  his  eyes. 

Nevertheless,  the  city  editor  restrained  him- 
self. His  first  impulse  had  been  to  address  sharp 
words  to  the  youth  who  had  appeared  from  no- 
where, silently,  unannounced,  and  who  was  now 
moving  about  the  room  in  the  aimless  fashion  of 
a  sleep-walker.  But  if  Beakman  greatly  enjoyed 
the  fullest  exercise  of  the  "little  brief  authority" 
with  which  he  was  clothed,  love  of  authority  was 
not,  after  all,  his  ruling  passion.  The  least  dis- 
cerning of  the  reporters  who  worked  under  him 
could  have  told  you  that  by  nature  he  was  an 
eavesdropper,  a  spy,  who  was  never  so  wholly 
alive  as  when  he  could  furtively  watch  a  human 

16 


'The  Man  is  Here!" 

being  who  was  unaware  of  being  observed.  He 
would  rather  have  peeped  through  a  key-hole  to 
see  a  petty  thief  at  work  than  to  have  stood  upon 
a  mountain-top  to  witness  the  destruction  of  Pom- 
peii. He  would  rather  have  crouched  behind  a 
half-closed  door,  listening  to  the  harmless  secrets 
of  two  humble  creatures,  than  to  have  had  an 
open  seat  in  a  forum  within  hearing  of  a  Cicero 
or  a  Demosthenes. 

So  it  was  that  he  now  stood  just  outside  the 
telephone  booth,  with  an  air  almost  of  suspended 
animation,  gazing  from  under  lowered  brows  at 
an  exhibition  of  conduct  which  was,  it  must  have 
been  conceded,  at  least  a  little  peculiar. 

The  young  man  who  had  entered  the  room  had 
paused  very  casually  at  Beakman's  desk,  obvi- 
ously taking  note  of  the  city  map  which  was 
spread  on  the  desk  under  a  protecting  sheet  of 
beveled  glass,  and  of  the  pigeon-holes  over-filled 
with  dusty  memoranda.  And  then  he  had  moved 
aimlessly  along  the  line  of  reporters'  desks,  paus- 
ing almost  imperceptibly  at  each,  as  if  the  aban- 
doned notes  strewn  here  and  there,  and  the  con- 
dition of  the  machines,  and  the  adjustment  of  the 
lights,  constituted  for  him  a  familiar  and  pleas- 
ing study. 

Finally  he  moved  toward  the  open  window  and 
stood  looking  at  the  obscure  facades  of  the  great 
office-buildings,  and  then  down  into  the  lighted 
street. 


Whispers 

He  could  not  have  helped  knowing  that  there 
had  been  someone  in  the  telephone  booth  a  mo- 
ment ago;  yet  he  was  exasperatingly  indifferent 
to  other  presences  than  his  own.  And  it  was  cer- 
tainly not  to  Beakman's  liking  to  be  ignored  by 
any  man,  here  in  the  room  where  his  word  was 
law,  and  where  his  authority  was  supreme. 

He  decided  to  say  something  severely  cutting, 
something  witheringly  scornful.  It  was  plain  that 
the  intruder  was  not  a  person  of  consequence.  He 
was  a  slight  youth,  wearing  a  threadbare  gray 
coat  and  a  soft  hat — also  of  a  gray  color — which 
had  lost  whatever  of  smartness  it  had  originally 
possessed.  A  person  of  no  consequence,  cer- 
tainly. 

But  Beakman  found  it  extraordinarily  difficult 
for  once  in  his  life  to  frame  a  neatly  offensive 
or  insulting  remark — though  many  a  reporter 
would  have  testified  that  such  a  predicament,  on 
Beakman's  part,  was  altogether  unprecedented. 
There  was,  however,  an  expression  of  aloofness 
in  the  slender  back  of  the  intruder,  and  an  air  at 
once  unconcerned  and  detached — a  manner  which 
was  as  a  fortress  which  is  not  to  be  taken  by  di- 
rect attack,  but  only  by  maneuvering. 

Then,  very  deliberately,  the  youth  turned  and 
stood  face  to  face  with  the  city  editor. 

His  countenance,  somehow,  did  not  invite 
abuse  or  contempt.  His  manner  was  singularly 
tranquil,  though  his  eyes  were  keen  and  search- 

18 


'The  Man  is  Here!" 

ing.  He  stood  regarding  Beakman  in  an  oddly 
impersonal  manner,  as  a  veteran  bank  teller  might 
regard  a  coin  to  determine  its  mintage  or  quality. 

"The  city  editor?"  he  asked,  drawing  a  few 
steps  nearer  without  removing  his  eyes  from  Beak- 
man's.  He  asked  the  question ;  yet  Beakman  did 
not  hear  it.  He  only  saw  the  intruder's  lips 
move,  and  noted  the  expression  of  courteous  in- 
terrogation in  his  eyes. 

"I  am  the  city  editor,"  he  said  in  a  blunt  tone. 
He  had  guessed  what  the  question  was.  What 
else  could  it  have  been?  And  his  anger  was 
stirred  anew.  For  one  of  Beakman's  secrets  was 
that  he  was  hard  of  hearing.  He  habitually 
shouted  to  all  his  reporters  and  by  the  sugges- 
tion of  his  own  manner  required  them  to  speak  to 
him  in  lifted  voices.  His  men  had  all  learned 
long  ago  that  if  they  wished  to  draw  upon  them- 
selves the  wrath  of  the  city  editor  they  had  only 
to  address  him  in  subdued  tones.  He  added,  with 
something  more  akin  to  his  habitually  offensive 
manner,  "What  do  you  want?" 

The  answer  came,  after  a  quietly  thoughtful 
pause,  "I  was  looking  for  work." 

"We're  full,  here,"  said  Beakman.  He  spoke 
angrily.  Indeed,  he  was  angry.  He  had  heard 
what  the  other  man  said  only  by  the  utmost  con- 
centration of  his  faculties.  The  stranger  had 
enunciated  his  words  with  almost  meticulous  pre- 
cision, but  he  had  spoken  in  a  whisper;  and  the 

19 


Whispers 

city  editor  had  been  required  to  bend  above  his 
desk,  as  if  in  search  of  something,  to  bring  his 
least  defective  ear  closer  to  the  whispering  lips. 

"Well — don't  distress  yourself,"  said  the  in- 
truder mildly.  "I  didn't  mean,  necessarily,  that 
I  wanted  to  work  here.  I  was  just  looking 
around."  He  continued  to  regard  Beakman  a  lit- 
tle curiously. 

Beakman  had  heard  only  a  part  of  this  utter- 
ance; and  now  he  blurted  out  savagely — "Speak 
up,  man !  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  It  won't 
hurt  you  to  let  yourself  be  heard,  unless — unless 
you're  a  confederate,  or  something  of  the  sort." 

The  intruder  considered  this.  An  expression 
of  regret  came  into  his  eyes.  "My  voice,"  he 
said,  still  whispering,  "it — it's  a  physical  infirm- 
ity." 

The  manner  rather  than  the  words  affected 
Beakman.  It  robbed  him  of  a  certain  readiness. 
He  dropped  into  his  seat  as  if  he  were  serving 
notice  upon  the  other  that  the  interview  was  at 
an  end.  He  took  a  bundle  of  notes  from  a  pigeon- 
hole. "Well,  we  don't  want  men  here  who  have 
physical  infirmities,"  he  said. 

But  still  the  intruder  did  not  go.  He  rested 
an  arm  lightly  on  the  top  of  the  city  editor's  desk. 
He  spoke  again,  in  the  same  rather  sinister  whis- 
per: "I  gather  from  what  your  police  reporter 
— from  what  Cook — tells  you  that  there's  been  a 
murder  committed." 

20 


'The  Man  is  Here!" 

Beakman  could  not  have  told  why  he  felt  sin- 
gularly fascinated  by  this  man's  manner — why  he 
should  have  wished  so  intensely  to  hear  what  he 
had  to  say.  Now  he  looked  up  sharply.  "How 
did  you  know  it  was  Cook?"  he  demanded. 

The  other  smiled  faintly.  "You  called  his 
name,  two  or  three  times,  when  you  were  at  the 
phone." 

Beakman  flushed.  Then,  triumphantly,  "Well, 
then,  how  did  you  know  he  was  the  police  re- 
porter?" he  demanded. 

"Oh,  as  to  that — none  but  the  police  reporter 
would  have  called  you  up  to  turn  in  a  police  item." 
The  smile  on  the  stranger's  lips  was  less  like  the 
ghost  of  a  smile  now.  It  was  a  very  human 
smile. 

Beakman  flushed  slightly  and  grunted ;  and  then 
he  shrank  down  in  his  chair  and  crossed  his  legs 
and  pretended  to  give  his  undivided  attention  to 
the  notes  on  the  desk  before  him. 

"And  he  was  right— Cook,  I  mean — about  its 
being  a — a  vendetta,  as  he  quaintly  expressed  it," 
the  whispering  voice  went  on.  "The  murder,  you 
know." 

Beakman  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
lift  his  eyes.  "Yes?"  he  asked.  His  tone  was 
contemptuous. 

"Yes.  You  see,  there's  nothing  stirring  at  night 
on  Fourth  street.  A  burglar  wouldn't  have  been 
interrupted  or  frightened  away." 

21 


Whispers 

The  city  editor  regarded  him  with  insolence. 
"You  know  the  city,  then?"  he  asked. 

"Not  at  all.  I  arrived  from  the  east  only  an 
hour  ago.  I've  never  set  foot  on  one  of  your 
streets  before." 

Beakman's  expression  changed  from  facile 
scorn  to  a  strange,  malignant  intensity.  He 
leaned  forward  and  placed  his  clenched  hand  on 
the  desk  before  him.  "Then,"  he  demanded, 
"how  did  you  know  that  the  murder  occurred  on 
'Fourth  street?" 

{  He  was  utterly  disconcerted  by  the  simplicity 
of  the  reply.  "I  walked  the  streets  an  hour  be- 
fore I  called  here.  I  walked  down  Fourth  street. 
I  passed  old  Drumm's  place — though  I  didn't 
know  he  was  old  Drumm.  I  saw  his  name  above 
his  door.  I  was  attracted  by  a  cabinet  of  false 
faces  out  in  front.  They  seemed  rather  ghastly, 
staring  out  of  the  darkness  on  a  deserted  street. 
[You  see,  there's  no  great  mystery." 

Again  the  city  editor  lowered  his  eyes.  He 
was  experiencing  the  antipathy  of  a  jealous,  tyran- 
nical soul  toward  an  alerter,  more  candid  intelli- 
gence. Presently  he  heard  a  whispered  word.  It 
was  the  word  "Good-night."  And  he  looked  up 
to  find  himself  alone. 

He  sat  cogitating  in  silence  for  only  an  in- 
stant; and  then  the  newspaper  man  in  him  gained 
the  ascendancy  over  the  narrow  creature  who 
liked  to  spurn  all  men  who  were  in  a  position 

22 


"The  Man  is  Here!" 

where  they  must  sue.  The  fellow — this  mysteri- 
ous whisperer — had  eyes  in  his  head.  He  had 
learned  how  to  observe.  He  had  a  brain  which 
was  quick  to  receive  impressions.  He  might  be 
a  very  good  reporter  indeed — and  the  News  really 
needed  good  men. 

He  arose  and  strolled  out  into  the  hall,  check- 
ing the  impulse  to  hurry. 

There  had  been  no  sound  of  the  elevator  as- 
cending or  descending;  yet  his  late  caller  was  no- 
where to  be  seen. 


Chapter  IV 
The  Lost  Tavern 

THE  reporters  began  to  come  in.  The  ele- 
vators began  to  be  active,  there  were  voices 
in  the  hall.  The  men  paused  briefly  at  Beak- 
man's  desk,  each  with  a  word  or  two  of  explana- 
tion, of  inquiry.  Then  they  passed  on  to  their 
own  desks  and  sat  down  before  their  typewrit- 
ers. They  adjusted  their  lights  and  their  memo- 
randa; they  began  to  work.  They  were  men  of 
a  certain  unique  type,  all  reflecting  Beakman's 
ideals  and  taste.  Those  among  them  who  were 
youthful — the  majority — manifested  a  kind  of 
perkiness,  a  notable  self-satisfaction.  They  af- 
fected a  degree  of  smartness  in  their  attire.  They 
were  a  class  of  men  to  whom  the  word  cynicism 
was  a  delicious  word.  To  be  really  cynical  meant, 
to  them,  to  be  very  superior.  They  greatly  de- 
sired to  be  cynical,  to  be  thought  cynical.  Their 
minds  were  so  curiously  formed  that  they  re- 
garded themselves  as  incomparably  superior  when 
they  sat  up  nearly  all  night  playing  poker,  or 
drinking,  and  then  fell  asleep  in  swivel  chairs, 
with  their  feet  thrust  forward  on  their  desks,  and 

24 


The  Lost  Tavern 

spent  the  remainder  of  the  night  so  instead  of  go- 
ing home  to  their  beds.  In  a  majority  of  cases 
they  were  unfit  men,  untrained,  all  but  worthless. 
They  drew  salaries  of  perhaps  fifteen  or  eighteen 
dollars  a  week  and  were  always  in  debt.  Yet  they 
regarded  all  other  classes  of  young  men  as  un- 
fortunate and  inferior.  The  few  older  men 
among  them,  some  of  whom  were  quite  elderly, 
but  who  had  been  young  and  cynical  in  their  day, 
were  now  particularly  skeptical  of  the  value  and 
glory  of  cynicism.  They  were  quiet  men,  in- 
clined to  be  moody,  yet  not  unkind.  They  gave 
advice  and  loaned  money  to  the  younger  men, 
knowing  that  both  were  thrown  away. 

The  clatter  of  typewriters  arose  in  the  local 
room.  An  atmosphere  as  of  suppressed  excite- 
ment permeated  the  place.  Beakman  seemed 
slowly  to  expand,  to  become  more  consciously  au- 
tocratic. Occasionally  he  made  his  power  felt 
by  interrupting  one  of  the  reporters  with  a  word 
of  inquiry,  of  instruction.  The  office  gradually 
assumed  a  bustling  air.  Galley-boys  from  the  me- 
chanical department  appeared  with  proofs.  Desk 
men  with  a  nervous  manner  appeared  and  dis- 
appeared. Heads  of  other  departments  became 
occasionally  visible:  the  telegraph  editor,  the 
markets  editor,  the  railroad  editor.  Some  re- 
quired information  from  the  city  editor;  others 
came  in  merely  to  chat  a  moment.  The  dramatic 
critic  for  the  paper,  just  returned  from  a  play- 

25 


Whispers 

house,  came  into  the  local  room  because  his  own 
typewriter,  in  some  other  part  of  the  building, 
was  out  of  order.  His  manner,  as  he  sat  at  the 
desk  of  a  reporter  who  was  absent,  was  an  odd 
compound  of  patronage  and  disdain  and  simple 
dubiousness  arising  from  his  inability  to  think  of 
certain  words  he  wanted  to  use.  He  had  not  yet 
decided  whether  he  should  write  with  withering 
scorn  of  the  play  he  had  witnessed,  or  whether  he 
might  not  display  his  own  cleverness  to  better  ad- 
vantage if  he  pointed  out  that  the  new  piece  was 
delightfully  novel. 

Suddenly  a  faint  yet  ominous  rumbling  sound 
could  be  heard.  The  walls  and  furniture  of  the 
office  began  to  vibrate  slightly.  The  presses 
down  in  the  basement  had  been  started.  The 
early  mail  edition  of  the  News  was  being  printed. 

The  little  sea  of  activities  flowed  and  then  it 
ebbed.  One  reporter  after  another  turned  in  his 
"story."  The  battle  had  moved  on,  chiefly,  to 
the  mechanical  departments.  Here  and  there  a 
reporter  sprawled  in  his  seat,  yawning  and  occa- 
sionally glancing  at  the  clock.  The  city  editor 
seemed  slowly  to  contract,  to  take  down  the  pen- 
nons of  battle,  to  put  up  his  shutters  for  the  night. 
He  no  longer  seemed  conscious  of  enviable  posi- 
tion and  power.  For  the  moment  he  was  simply 
an  elderly  man,  weary  and  indifferent.  Then, 
rousing  himself  for  one  final  act  of  impressive- 
ness,  he  arose  and  drew  the  top  of  his  desk  down 

26 


The  Lost  Tavern 

with  a  loud  noise.  He  went  to  a  locker  against 
the  wall  and  removed  his  hat.  He  looked  at  the 
clock,  which  recorded  the  hour  of  12:30.  And 
then,  to  the  room  in  general  he  said:  "All  right, 
boys!" 

He  liked  to  demonstrate  that  among  his  vari- 
ous talents  he  could  even  be  human — after  the 
night's  work  was  done.  He  had  put  a  certain 
warmth  into  those  words,  "All  right,  boys!" 
Then  he  went  out  into  the  hall  and  stood  with  a 
certain  Napoleonic  air,  waiting  for  the  elevator. 
An  air  of  loftiness  began  to  return  to  him.  He 
knew  that  the  small  group  of  men  who  would  re- 
main about  the  office  for  some  three  or  four  hours, 
in  the  event  of  some  strange  or  important  hap- 
pening occurring  after  the  regular  edition  went 
to  press,  were  men  upon  whom  he  could  rely  fully. 
And  he  was  satisfied  that  the  News,  on  the  mor- 
row, would  be  a  very  good  newspaper.  The 
Drumm  murder  story  would  loom  large  on  the 
first  page,  and  the  photograph  of  old  Drumm, 
which  Cook  had  obtained  from  the  police,  would 
probably  be  exclusive.  The  story  had  been  well 
written,  too — with  a  rare  and  effective  touch  given 
to  the  false  faces  amidst  which  old  Drumm  had 
been  found. 

The  elevator  descended  to  the  first  floor  with- 
out stopping  and  with  no  passenger  other  than 
Beakman.  The  elevator  boy  opened  the  gate 
and  the  city  editor  passed  out  without  saying  good- 

27 


Whispers 

night.  He  passed  through  the  lobby  of  the  build- 
ing and  stepped  out  upon  the  pavement. 

The  street  was  now  empty  save  for  the  few 
homeless  mendicants  who  came  and  went  a  greater 
part  of  the  night — or  until  the  vigilance  of  the 
police  was  relaxed,  and  they  could  lie  down  on  a 
doorstep  or  in  an  areaway  and  go  to  sleep.  Beak- 
man  noted  one  or  two  of  these  human  derelicts 
in  a  wholly  detached  manner.  He  was  not  in- 
terested in  them.  They  were  worthless  even  con- 
sidered from  the  standpoint  of  news.  When  their 
time  came  to  die  their  deaths  were  worth  only  a 
routine  item. 

For  a  moment  he  paused  where  he  had  emerged 
from  the  office  lobby — paused  undecidedly,  as  if 
he  were  vaguely  conscious  that  in  going  out  upon 
the  highways  he  was  leaving  behind  him  his  status 
as  a  despot,  and  entering  realms  where  he  should 
be  required  to  conduct  himself  decently  toward 
his  fellow-creatures.  And  then  he  bethought  him 
of  Madam  Joan's. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  had  entered  a  dark 
thoroughfare  and  was  making  his  way  leisurely 
toward  the  city's  Chinese  colony.  At  a  corner 
he  encountered  two  police  officers  whom  he  ac- 
costed with  spurious  geniality — and  they  looked 
after  him  curiously  as  he  continued  on  his  way 
amid  the  shadows.  It  was  not  his  intention  to 
go  quite  into  the  Chinese  colony — though  already 
he  was  passing  certain  typical  shops  which  pro- 

28 


The  Lost  Tavern 

claimed  their  Orientalism  to  more  than  one  of 
the  senses.  They  were  wrapped  in  peculiar 
odors,  somnolent  and  sinister,  and  there  were 
strange  exhibits  in  their  windows:  dried  sea 
urchins  and  other  exotic  marine  specimens,  and 
strange  herbs,  and  outlandish  vessels  and  imple- 
ments, and  parcels  in  papers  which  suggested  fire- 
crackers— all  constituting  an  exhibit  savoring  of 
foreign  ships  and  far-away  ports. 

Beyond  the  first  three  or  four  of  these  shops 
Beakman  came  upon  a  large  building  of  obviously 
Occidental  aspects.  The  ground  floor  was  occu- 
pied by  plumbers'  and  steam-fitters'  shops,  all  now 
dark  and  deserted.  But  in  the  midst  of  these 
shops  there  was  an  open  doorway  which  admitted 
to  a  flight  of  stairs,  and  to  the  upper  regions  of 
the  building,  which  was  some  four  or  five  stories 
in  height. 

Beakman  stopped  and  looked  up  the  dark  stair- 
way. Something — the  murmur  of  voices,  it  may 
be,  or  a  gleam  of  light  under  the  door  at  the  top 
of  the  stairs — enabled  him  to  come  to  a  decision. 
After  a  casual  glance  up  and  down  the  street  he 
began  to  climb  the  dark  stairs. 

It  was  evident  that  he  was  on  no  errand  of 
espionage,  for  when  the  stairs  creaked  beneath 
his  tread  he  paid  no  heed.  Indeed,  he  hummed 
an  air  from  one  of  the  musical  comedies  of  a  re- 
cent year,  and  his  eyes  began  to  look  upward  ex- 
pectantly, and  his  whole  being  to  become  more 

29 


Whispers 

alive,  as  he  drew  closer  to  the  door  before  him. 
And  at  last  he  thrust  the  door  open  with  a  kind 
of  theatrical  gesture,  and  stood  revealed  on  the 
threshold,  looking  about  the  pleasantly  lighted  in- 
terior. For  a  moment  he  stood  so,  and  then  he 
closed  the  door  behind  him. 

He  was  in  a  dining-room,  with  a  dozen  small 
tables  ranged  before  him.  And  there  were  per- 
haps a  dozen  persons  within  his  range  of  vision, 
some  still  waiting  to  be  served,  while  others  had 
finished  their  supper  and  were  remaining  to  talk 
and  smoke. 

The  aspects  of  the  room  were  all  familiar  to 
Beakman — or  so  he  supposed  them  to  be.  Yet 
now  he  realized  that  an  unfamiliar  figure  had 
taken  its  place  in  the  picture.  At  one  of  the 
tables  nearest  to  him  a  solitary  diner  sat  in  such 
a  position  that  he  was  now  gazing  directly  into 
the  city  editor's  eyes. 

Beakman's  mind  stumbled  and  groped  for  an 
instant.  He  stared  at  the  unfamiliar  diner, 
whom  he  had  never  seen  in  the  dining-room  of 
Madam  Joan  before  during  all  the  years  in  which 
he  had  patronized  the  place.  And  then  his  mind 
caught  hold  of  certain  clues.  The  stranger  was 
the  mysterious  youth  who  had  behaved  so  ex- 
traordinarily in  the  office  of  the  News  only  an 
hour  or  so  ago. 

"Ah!"  mused  Beakman,  "it's— it's  Whispers!'* 


Chapter  V 
The  Tavern's  Guests 

MADAM  JOAN'S  establishment  was  not 
quite  beneath  the  admiration  of  persons  in 
society,  nor  wholly  above  the  suspicions  of  the  po- 
lice. On  the  second  floor  it  was  a  restaurant 
catering  to  the  needs  of  all  classes  of  persons  who 
had  occasion  to  dine  late  at  night.  But  on  the 
third  and  fourth  floors  it  was  a  place  of  mystery, 
catering  to  the  pleasures  of  a  class  of  individuals 
who,  in  the  general  and  vague  characterization  of 
the  police,  were  without  visible  means  of  support. 

The  rank  and  file  of  diners  who  patronized 
Madam  Joan's  entered  the  place  by  way  of  that 
flight  of  stairs  which  we  have  seen  Beakman 
mount.  That  is  to  say,  they  entered  by  what  was 
known  as  a  side  entrance.  There  was,  however, 
another  entrance  on  another  street:  an  entrance 
duly  lighted  and  ornamented,  and  boasting  an 
elevator  and  a  smart  little  office,  and  a  discreet 
clerk. 

From  this  second  entrance  one  was  lifted  to 
the  third  floor,  where  there  were  many  small  din- 
ing rooms,  or  to  the  fourth  floor,  where  one  might 

31 


Whispers 

engage  a  room  for  the  night.  When  it  is  added 
that  a  flight  of  stairs  connected  the  dining  room 
on  the  second  floor,  where  the  voice  of  the  people 
was  to  be  heard  betimes,  with  the  dining  rooms 
on  the  third  floor,  where  the  Olympians  fore- 
gathered, the  architectural  scheme  of  the  estab- 
lishment has  been,  perhaps,  sufficiently  outlined. 

When  Beakman  had  closed  the  door  behind 
him  and  had  recognized  the  youth  who  had  ap- 
peared in  the  local  room  of  the  News  that  night, 
he  took  the  first  place  he  came  to  and  sat  down. 
His  movements  were  deliberate  and — at  least  to 
his  own  way  of  thinking — impressive.  A  group 
of  reporters  from  the  Fidette — the  opposition 
morning  journal — were  seated  at  a  round  table  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  it  was  Beakman's 
instinct  to  be  Napoleonic  whenever  he  was  in 
the  presence  of  a  reporter.  Having  seated  him- 
self, he  permitted  himself  to  indulge  in  a  mood 
of  pleasant  fancy  touching  the  character  of 
Madam  Joan's. 

He  thought  it  a  good  place  to  be  in,  after  the 
stress  of  the  day.  On  many  a  night,  in  the  years 
which  lay  behind  him,  he  had  sat  here — either  in 
the  public  dining  room  or  in  one  of  the  smaller 
private  rooms  overhead — and  had  talked  the 
night  out  and  the  new  day  in,  in  an  atmosphere 
which  seemed  to  him  wholly  ideal.  Many  men 
from  the  morning  journals  met  here  after  their 
papers  had  gone  to  press.  There  were  two  spe- 

32 


The  Tavern's  Guests 

cial  tables  always  in  reserve  for  them  at  the  far 
end  of  the  dining  room.  And  just  a  sufficient 
number  of  strangers,  from  semi-mendicants  with 
barely  the  price  of  pie  and  coffee,  to  politicians 
entertaining  friends  from  out  of  town,  came  into 
the  place  to  stimulate  curiosity  and  provide  diver- 
sion and  variety. 

But  Beakman  liked  best  to  permit  his  mind  to 
dwell  upon  the  private  rooms  on  the  floor  above 
him.  They  were  more  exclusively  Bohemian,  less 
obviously  matter-of-fact.  Men  and  women  from 
the  theaters,  the  actors  and  actresses,  were  spe- 
cially welcomed  there.  Chorus  girls  belonging 
to  second-rate  musical  comedies  found  Madam 
Joan's  accommodations  within  their  means;  and 
there  they  often  found  themselves  in  company 
with  the  faded  stars  of  the  stage :  women  of  van- 
ished youth  and  lost  popularity  who  had  dropped 
out  of  the  theater's  major  affairs  and  found  lodg- 
ment and  a  precarious  living  in  nondescript  travel- 
ing companies,  and  men  who  could  don  and  doff 
a  courtly  dignity  with  surprising  ease — men  who 
had  "appeared  in  support  of  Booth"  in  happier 
years,  but  who  were  now  bringing  their  careers 
to  a  dreary  close  by  obtaining  minor  parts  in  the 
most  artificial  type  of  melodramas  and  rural  plays. 
When  these  were  brought  to  the  city  for  a  week's 
stay  they  came  to  Madam  Joan's — came  with  a 
childishly  eager  air,  because  it  seemed  to  them 
almost  like  a  restoration  of  the  old  glories. 

33 


Whispers 

Madam's  rooms  above  boasted  painted  panels 
with  heavy  gilt  lines  framing  them,  and  rather 
substantial  mirrors,  and  hangings — which  always 
seemed  a  trifle  dusty — of  a  somberly  rich  ma- 
terial. There  were  larger  tables  for  guests  who 
came  in  groups;  and  smaller  tables — you  came 
upon  them  in  all  manner  of  unexpected  nooks  and 
corners — where  couples  could  dine  vis-a-vis:  the 
man  usually  speaking  in  covered  tones  and  smil- 
ing darkly  and  holding  his  eyes  steadily  upon  the 
lady  opposite  him,  while  she  looked  timidly  or 
forebodingly  at  her  plate,  according  to  an  ancient 
tradition,  though  in  truth  it  might  be  she  who  was 
the  predatory  one,  and  the  man  a  creature  of 
great  timidity,  ready  to  run  at  the  first  approach 
of  danger. 

Beakman  had  known  these  rooms  since  the  days 
of  his  youth;  and  if  they  no  longer  seemed  to  him 
so  genuinely  romantic  and  splendid  as  they  had 
formerly  done,  he  was  still  susceptible  to  their  in- 
fluence. His  boyhood  had  been  spent  in  ignorance 
and  poverty,  and  in  the  years  of  his  maturity  he 
was  without  the  power  to  discriminate.  Madam 
Joan's  establishment  still  seemed  to  him  a  place 
of  many  elegancies.  That  the  red  wine  which  she 
served  with  her  dinners  was  held  in  contempt 
by  most  of  her  patrons  mattered  not  at  all  to 
him.  He  regarded  the  serving  of  the  wine  as 
a  kind  of  ritual.  He  did  not  care  that  it  was  not 
fit  to  drink.  And  he  knew  no  other  place  where 

34 


The  Tavern's  Guests 

coffee  was  served  in  very  little  cups — black  coffee 
— and  where  nearly  all  the  dishes  were  mysteri- 
ously seasoned,  possessing  for  him  a  special  glam- 
our which  was  bestowed  upon  them  by  their 
French  names. 

Now  he  sat  just  inside  the  door  by  which  he  had 
entered,  his  predilection  for  eavesdropping  slowly 
mastering  him.  Through  an  open  doorway  near 
him  he  could  hear  a  murmur  of  voices,  spilling 
over  from  the  floor  above.  He  liked  to  fancy  that 
he  recognized  this  voice  and  that,  and  from  time 
to  time  he  smiled  faintly.  Undoubtedly  he  recog- 
nized the  voice  of  Madam  as  she  moved  among 
her  guests.  It  was  her  custom  to  descend  to  the 
public  dining  room  occasionally  and  he  counted 
upon  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  before  long.  He 
imagined  himself  a  great  person  in  Madam's  eyes. 
She  graciously  called  him  monsieur.  She  enunci- 
ated her  words  with  a  delicacy  quite  out  of  keep- 
ing with  the  coarseness  of  her  features.  She 
called  him  monsieur  and  smiled  at  him  confiden- 
tially, as  if  she  and  he  recognized  the  fact  that 
the  world  was  a  place  of  manifold  follies.  It  was 
in  this  way  that  she  smiled  at  everyone,  excepting 
those  who  came  to  ask  favors  or  to  collect  bills. 
Toward  such  persons  she  had  a  very  severe  and 
coarse  manner,  which  was  unmistakably  genuine. 

However,  it  was  evident  that  Madam  was  de- 
tained above  stairs  just  at  present,  and  Beakman 
withdrew  his  thoughts  from  her  for  the  moment. 

35 


Whispers 

He  took  more  definite  note  of  his  immediate  sur- 
roundings. There  were  a  good  many  diners 
within  the  radius  of  his  glance.  At  practically 
all  the  tables  one  or  more  patrons  sat.  But  they 
were  all  uninteresting.  They  were  in  Madam 
Joan's  dining  room  not  because  of  the  traditions 
of  the  place,  but  for  the  purpose  of  gratifying 
their  appetites  cheaply  and  getting  on  their  way. 
Indeed,  Beakman  was  inclined  to  become  pessi- 
mistic, and  to  lament  that  the  old  days  were  gone, 
and  that  the  new  order  of  things  was  painfully 
materialistic  and  hurried  and  mean. 

He  permitted  his  gaze  to  rest  contemptuously 
upon  the  round  table  at  the  far  end  of  the  room, 
where  a  group  of  men  from  the  Vidette  were 
seated.  It  was  a  tacit  law  that  no  man  from  the 
News  should  intrude  within  that  circle — that  he 
should  not  take  a  place  at  that  table,  unless  by 
special  invitation.  There  was  another  table  for 
the  News  men,  similarly  reserved.  And  in  any 
case,  Beakman  would  not  have  cared  to  join  the 
group  of  men  from  the  Vidette.  In  a  number  of 
cases  they  were  men  who  had  formerly  taken  or- 
ders from  him — and  who  had  quit  his  service 
with  bitterness  in  their  hearts  toward  him.  It 
was  his  belief  that  he  despised  them  all — though 
perhaps  his  strong  disinclination  to  come  within 
the  circle  of  their  conviviality  was  based  upon  the 
secret  fact  that  they  made  him  despise  himself. 
They  were  a  cheerful  and  gentlemanly  lot.  They 

36 


The  Tavern's  Guests 

/ 

were  intensely  in  earnest  in  trying  to  make  the 
Fidette  a  financially  successful  newspaper,  which 
it  had  not  been  for  many  years.  They  were  bet- 
ter paid  than  men  working  in  similar  capacities 
for  the  News — though  Beakman  considered  them 
pitiful  fools  because  they  chose  to  work  on  the 
Fidette,  a  newspaper  of  minor  rank,  rather  than 
on  the  News,  a  journal  for  which  the  public  en- 
tertained a  wholesome  fear  and  respect. 

But  Beakman's  reflections  were  broken  in  upon 
in  a  manner  which  was  by  no  means  displeasing 
to  him.  There  was  a  step  on  the  stairs  connect- 
ing the  public  dining  room  with  the  more  exclusive 
regions  above. 

Was  it  Madam  Joan,  coming  to  smile  upon  him 
precisely  as  if  she  had  directed  that  the  choicest 
morsel  in  her  establishment  should  be  reserved  for 
him?  He  listened  «cloJsely.  No,  not  Madam 
Joan,  evidently.  The  step  fell  lightly  and  all  but 
purposefully.  It  announced  itself  by  its  quality 
to  be  a  man's  step.  And  then  the  man  appeared. 

He  stood  in  the  doorway  an  instant  in  painful 
doubt;  and  then  his  glance  was  flashed  almost 
fearfully  across  from  him  to  the  door  opening 
from  the  stairway  which  ascended  from  the  street 
— the  door  by  which  Beakman  had  entered.  For 
this  door  had  opened  also  and  a  second — or  a 
simultaneous — new  arrival  had  made  his  appear- 
ance. And  for  the  briefest  space  of  time  the  two 

37 


Whispers 

men,  gazing  across  the  intervening  tables  and 
diners,  observed  each  other. 

The  first — or  the  man  who  had  descended  from 
the  floor  above — was  a  shy-appearing  youth,  bear- 
ing, despite  his  neat  attire,  the  indelible  stamp  of 
a  rustic.  The  second — or  the  man  who  had  as- 
cended from  the  street — was  a  typical  specimen 
of  the  youth  who  has  never  known  any  but  the 
city's  ways,  and  the  city's  ways  at  their  worst. 
The  first  was  a  man  of  physical  delicacy,  with 
soft,  clear  eyes.  The  second  was  a  man  of  a 
naturally  robust  build,  though  he  was  now  obvi- 
ously the  victim  of  a  wasting  and  fatal  malady, 
and  his  eyes  were  neither  soft  nor  clear.  They 
gleamed  with  a  sinister  light,  and  their  glance 
shot  here  and  there  with  an  expression  which  sug- 
gested a  declaration  of  war. 

Beakman  noted  the  two  men,  one  after  the 
other.  And  then  he  turned  to  the  waitress  who 
had  at  last  made  her  services  available.  He  was 
glancing  at  a  menu-card,  and  then  banteringly 
at  the  waitress — as  men  of  a  certain  type  seem  to 
feel  they  are  expected  to  do  when  in  the  presence 
of  a  woman  who  is  required  to  serve  them — when 
the  two  new  arrivals  took  their  places  among  the 
other  diners. 


Chapter  VI 
A  Hand  that  Trembled 

r~  j^HE  two  new-comers  who  had  appeared  in 
A  the  dining  room  moved  forward  among  the 
tables,  each  with  the  evident  wish  to  find  a  place 
to  his  liking.  There  were  no  tables  unoccupied, 
so  that  neither  could  find  a  place  where  he  might 
sit  alone.  And  each  rejected  one  table  after  an- 
other as  if  he  hoped  to  find  a  more  inviting  spot 
a  little  further  on.  It  came  about  by  this  process 
that  both  were  presently  near  the  middle  of  the 
room.  Their  eyes  met;  and  each  man  turned 
about  as  if  he  felt  a  sort  of  discomfort  in  the 
proximity  of  the  other.  It  appeared  that  both  de- 
cided to  take  a  seat  anywhere,  rather  than  to 
continue  to  be  conspicuous  by  standing.  Each 
man  hung  his  hat  on  the  rack  nearest  him;  each 
turned  away  from  this  performance  and  laid  a 
hand  on  the  nearest  available  chair. 

Oddly  enough  they  had  chosen  the  same  table — 
the  table  occupied  by  the  man  whom  Beakman 
had  called  Whispers.  And  so  the  three  sat,  an 
oddly  assorted  trio:  the  two  new-comers  busying 
themselves  immediately  with  the  bill  of  fare,  while 

39 


Whispers 

the  newspaper  man,  as  he  had  represented  himself 
to  Beakman,  regarded  his  new  companions  with 
a  casual  yet  alert  curiosity. 

He  came  to  a  ready  conclusion  touching  the 
pair.  Both  were  uncomfortable — so  much  could 
be  seen  at  a  glance.  One — the  youth  of  a  rustic 
type — was  probably  uneasy  for  no  better  reason 
than  that  he  was  among  strangers.  The  other 
presented  a  more  complex  ground  for  speculation. 
He  was  a  physical  wreck,  to  begin  with ;  and  added 
to  a  malady  which  had  rendered  him  emaciated 
and  haggard,  there  was  the  result  of  what  might 
have  been  an  accident.  His  head,  near  the  crown, 
had  been  freshly  wounded.  The  scalp  had  been 
broken  and  it  had  been  bleeding.  The  blood  had 
been  carefully  washed  away.  So  much  was  at- 
tested by  the  fact  that  the  hair  was  still  wet. 

But  in  addition  to  the  man's  physical  condition 
there  was  present  a  mental  condition  which  was 
even  more  deeply  disquieting.  All  his  movements 
suggested  rebellion,  a  savage  hatred  of  the  world, 
of  life  itself.  His  manner  was  that  of  a  wolf 
which  has  come  to  its  lair  to  defend  itself  against 
a  too-numerous  foe  and  to  die  snarling  and 
maiming. 

The  waitress  paused  at  their  table  and  took 
their  orders.  The  wolf-like  stranger  hurled  his 
order  at  her  viciously.  Coffee  and  rolls.  The 
other  new-comer  falteringly  gave  his  order.  He 
spoke  with  an  effect  of  regretting  his  words — as 

40 


A  Hand  that  Trembled 

if  he  thought  perhaps  he  might  have  found  some- 
thing cheaper  or  more  appetizing  on  the  bill  of 
fare.  The  newspaper  man,  without  seeming  to 
take  too  pointed  note  of  what  transpired,  con- 
tinued to  eat  his  food,  which  he  was  just  finishing. 

Then,  in  a  casually  pleasant  way,  he  glanced 
directly  at  the  stranger  of  the  stricken  body  and 
the  savage  voice.  "A  bad  bump,"  he  said  gently, 
indicating  the  fresh  scalp  wound. 

He  was  disconcerted  by  the  man's  response: 
"What's  it  to  you?" — snarled  rather  than  spoken, 
and  uttered  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  fierce  ges- 
ture of  an  unshaven  chin. 

"Why,  nothing  special,"  was  the  soft  rejoin- 
der, "only  I'm  always  sorry  for  another  man's 
bad  luck."  He  seemed  to  withdraw  his  attention 
and  his  interest  then.  He  was  really  pondering 
upon  the  man's  extraordinarily  fierce  manner. 
He  was  wondering  what  could  have  reduced  any 
human  being  to  such  a  condition  of  indiscriminate 
animosity.  He  appeared  to  direct  his  thoughts 
toward  the  third  occupant  of  the  table.  He 
passed  the  water  decanter,  which  had  been  beyond 
the  man's  reach.  He  finished  his  coffee  and  sat 
waiting  for  the  waitress  to  bring  his  check.  It 
would  have  seemed  that  he  was  no  longer  in- 
terested in  anything  that  might  transpire  at  the 
table  at  which  he  sat — yet  he  did  not  fail  to  note 
that  when  the  timid  stranger  poured  water  from 
the  decanter  his  hand  trembled. 

41 


Whispers 

The  waitress  reappeared  with  coffee  and  rolls 
for  the  man  of  the  extraordinary  manner;  then 
she  hurried  away  to  fill  the  remaining  order,  and 
as  yet  she  had  not  given  the  newspaper  man  his 
check. 

There  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  wait 
as  patiently  as  he  might;  and  almost  unconsciously 
his  eyes  wandered  in  the  direction  of  the  savage 
fellow  who  had  repulsed  him  so  vigorously.  The 
man  was  eating  his  rolls  with  a  famished  air: 
thrusting  them,  piece  by  piece,  into  his  coffee,  and 
gulping  them  down  as  a  famished  dog  might  have 
done.  He  had  eaten  them  in  an  incredibly  short 
time;  and  then  his  eyes  rested  covetously  upon  a 
plate  of  bread  which  had  been  placed  on  the  table 
for  the  newspaper  man,  and  which  he  had  not 
eaten. 

The  inference  was  not  to  be  mistaken;  and  the 
newspaper  man,  with  a  kind  of  spontaneous  good- 
will, leaned  toward  the  other  man.  "Please  help 
yourself  to  the  bread,"  he  said  cordially.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  man  was  near  the  point  of 
starvation.  He  moved  the  bread-plate  to  a  new 
position.  And  then  he  observed  a  dish  of  rice 
pudding  which  had  been  meant  for  him,  but  which 
he  had  not  cared  for.  He  added,  with  a  note  of 
apology  in  his  voice,  "And  if  I  might  ask  you  to 
have  the  rice  pudding — or  better  still,  if  you'll 
let  me  order  for  you  some  of  the  roast  beef  " 

42 


A  Hand  that  Trembled 

The  other  man  jerked  his  chin  forward,  his  eyes 
glared  fiercely.  "What  for?"  he  demanded. 

"Why — I'm  sure  you'll  not  take  offense,  but  I 
think  you  need  it." 

"That's  no  reason/' 

"Why,  yes,  I  think  it  is.     Isn't  it?" 

"If  it  was,  there'd  be  no  hungry  men  on  the 
streets — and  no  ragged  men,  and  no  men  to  go 
cold." 

"It's  a  reason  just  the  same.  What  you  mean 
is  that  some  men  don't  recognize  it." 

The  other  man,  with  an  air  of  letting  a  thin 
veil  down  over  his  belligerency,  stopped  to  weigh 
the  words;  and  then  he  put  forth  his  hand  as 
if  experimentally  and  took  bread  from  the  plate 
which  had  been  placed  within  his  reach.  The 
movement  was  cautious,  even  suspicious — as  if 
he  feared  a  trap  had  been  laid  for  him.  But 
when  he  found  that  he  wr  T  free  to  eat  the 

bread  which  had  been  n  he  ate 

eagerly.     He  ate  until 
peared.     He  ate  the 
drawing  this  towar 
of  an  almost  sulk. 

"Come,  what 
roast  beef?" 

"No." 

"Well — 1 
welcome." 

The  strange   creai    . 

43 


Whispers 

spoon  against  the  saucer  as  he  scraped  together 
the  last  grains  of  rice.  His  actions,  his  manner, 
must  have  been  painful  to  any  sensitive  man;  but 
if  the  newspaper  man  felt  any  discomfort,  he 
did  not  betray  the  fact.  He  came  nearest  to  feel- 
ing discomfort  when  the  other  man,  pushing  the 
empty  saucer  away,  looked  up  at  him  with  a  cer- 
tain almost  malicious  curiosity. 

"Funny  guy!"  he  said.  He  still  uttered  his 
words  rapidly,  with  an  almost  inhuman  uncouth- 
ness. 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Not  comical,  y'understand.  I  mean — wheels. 
Strangers  in  the  attic." 

The  newspaper  man  considered  this  smilingly. 
"No,"  he  said  at  length.  "It's  the  other  fellows, 
some  of  them,  who  have  strangers  in  their  at- 
tic. Mischievous  strangers,  sometimes.  Coun- 
terfeiters. That  sort  of  strangers." 

He  was  amazed  at  the  effect  of  his  words.  The 
man  suddenly  laughed:  not  heartily — the  word 
would  never  have  been  suggested;  but  loudly, 
raucously,  with  a  kind  of  malicious  joy.  And 
when  he  had  had  his  laugh  out  he  said  with  an 
air  of  deeply  stirred  interest,  "You  might  be 
crazy,  but  you're  no  fool." 

"I  don't  believe  I'm  crazy.  But  there — there 
was  something  I  wanted  to  say  to  you.  You'll 
not  take  offense?  You  ought  to  go  around  to  the 
dispensary — the  free  city  dispensary,  I  mean — and 

44 


A  Hand  that  Trembled 

have  that  bump  of  yours  looked  after.  It  looks 
rather  ugly,  you  know.  And  it'll  be  no  trouble 
to  them  to  dress  it :  a  little  antiseptic,  and  a  bit  of 
absorbent  cotton  and  tape — nothing  more.  It 
might  save  you  a  good  deal  of  trouble." 

Again  the  response  was  so  unexpected  as  to  be 
disconcerting:  "You  wouldn't  tell  a  guy  what  your 
name  is,  would  you?" 

"Yes,  I  would.  It's  Estabrook — Robert  Esta- 
brook.  Here  it  is."  He  produced  a  much-worn 
card-case  and  drew  out  a  card  which  he  passed 
across  the  table. 

The  derelict  took  it  up  and  read  slowly,  "Rob- 
ert Estabrook.  Boston  Trans — what's  that?" 

"Transcript.     Boston  Transcript." 

"What's  that  mean?" 

"That's  the  name  of  a  paper  I  used  to  work 
on." 

"Oh — you  write  stuff  for  the  papers?" 

"Sometimes." 

The  man  grinned  as  if  he  had  opened  the  door 
into  a  magic  world.  He  uttered  an  oath,  but  he 
was  still  grinning.  He  was  trying  to  express  his 
wonder.  His  eyes,  fixed  upon  vacancy,  lighted 
strangely. 

The  waitress  appeared  now  to  serve  the  third 
member  of  the  group,  and  the  newspaper  man— 
Estabrook,  as  his  card  had  announced  him — de- 
tained her  with  a  quiet  word.  "Another  order 

45 


Whispers 

of  roast  beef,"  she  repeated  automatically;  and 
again  she  was  gone. 

The  derelict  shaped  another  thought.  "The 
papers  print  a  lot  of  guff — don't  they!" 

Estabrook  was  noting  the  changing  aspect  of 
the  dining  room.  Nearly  all  the  diners  were  leav- 
ing. He  supposed  that  they  might  be  employed 
in  some  sort  of  plant  which  operated  by  night. 
And  when  they  were  gone  a  changed  atmosphere 
made  itself  felt.  The  place  was  now  a  place  of 
leisure,  of  pleasant  idling.  A  group  of  men  seated 
at  a  round  table  at  one  end  of  the  room  seemed 
somehow  to  take  possession  of  the  whole  room — 
though  they  had  not  stirred.  They  seemed  to  feel 
that  antagonistic — or  at  least  that  alien — influ- 
ences had  been  withdrawn.  They  began  to  chat 
more  unreservedly,  in  a  more  intimate  manner. 

"Sometimes  they  do,"  replied  Estabrook,  bring- 
ing his  eyes  back  to  those  of  the  derelict. 

"What  I  mean  is,  it's  a  kind  of  skin  game,  like 
everything  else — running  a  paper." 

"Everything  isn't  a  skin  game,"  said  Estabrook 
quietly.  "Publishing  a  newspaper  is  sometimes  a 
big  job,  a  fine  job.  Almost  the  finest  in  the 
world." 

The  other  man  shook  his  head  decisively.  "Of 
course  you  wouldn't  knock  your  own  game,"  he 
said.  "But  the  papers  don't  try  for  anything 
so  hard  as  to  please  the  rich  and  use  the  poor — 

46 


A  Hand  that  Trembled 

like  everything  else.  You  think  about  it.  You 
know  I'm  right." 

"Some  newspapers,"  said  Estabrook  quietly. 

The  third  diner  now  lifted  his  eyes  timidly  to 
Estabrook's.  "Every  business  attracts  some  good 
people  an3  some  bad  people,"  he  ventured. 

"That's  the  simple  truth,"  said  Estabrook. 

But  the  derelict  declared  with  a  certain  heat: 
"The  good  people  get  skinned,  and  the  crooks 
gobble  up  everything." 

The  waitress  returned  presently  with  the  second 
order  of  roast  beef;  and  when  Estabrook  had  in- 
dicated to  her  by  a  glance  for  whom  it  was  in- 
tended, he  gave  his  undivided  attention  for  a  mo- 
ment to  the  group  of  men  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room — the  men  who  idled  around  a  circular  table. 
One  of  these  men  now  leaned  forward  that  he 
might  drop  the  ash  from  his  cigarette  into  his 
coffee-cup ;  and  resuming  his  reclining  position,  he 
said  in  a  pensively  drawling  voice — as  if  in  con- 
tinuation of  an  idea  previously  put  forward  by 
some  member  of  his  group : 

"You've  got  to  feel  sorry  for  any  poor  devil 
whose  life  is  snuffed  out  as  if  it  didn't  amount  to 
anything  more  than  a  match.  And  yet  I  suppose 
if  you'd  search  the  city  over  with  a  fine-tooth 
comb  you'd  not  find  a  soul  of  less  actual  value 
to  the  community  than  that  old  skin-flint  who 
has  just  gone  to  his  acccount." 

The  words  exerted  a  subtle  influence  upon  the 
47 


Whispers 

very  atmosphere  of  the  room.  An  instant  of  un- 
broken silence  ensued.  All  the  men  over  at  the 
round  table  were  rapt  in  thought.  Estabrook's 
interest  in  what  had  just  been  said  was  such  that 
his  head  seemed  to  lift.  His  eyes  narrowed.  He 
seemed  to  be  waiting  intently  to  hear  what  would 
follow.  And  Beakman,  who  had  been  taking 
rather  furtive  notice  of  the  man  whom  he  had 
called  Whispers,  now  regarded  him  narrowly — 
as  if  he  suspected  that  any  reference  to  the  mur- 
der which  had  been  committed  that  night  must 
have  for  him  a  special  significance.  The  timid 
youth  at  Estabrook's  table  had  caught  the  words, 
too,  and  he  seemed  to  listen  with  a  kind  of  terror 
to  hear  what  would  follow.  Only  the  derelict 
seemed  unconcerned.  He  was  attacking  the  food 
which  had  been  placed  before  him.  The  edge  of 
his  hunger  seemed  quite  as  sharp  as  ever. 
The  man  over  at  the  round  table  continued: 
"No,  if  I  were  asked  to  select  a  man  in  the 
whole  of  Missouri  City  who  might  be  expected 
to  slip  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  great  divide 
without  being  missed  or  mourned,  I'd  unhesi- 
tatingly pronounce  the  name  of  old  Pheneas 
Drumm." 

The  crash  of  a  goblet  was  heard  in  the  room. 
The  timid  youth  at  Estabrook's  table,  drinking  a 
final  draught  of  water,  had  seemed  almost  to  col- 
lapse when  the  name  of  Pheneas  Drumm  was 
spoken.  Now,  with  trembling  fingers  he  was  pick- 

48 


A  Hand  that  Trembled 

ing  up  bits  of  glass  and  placing  them  in  a  heap  on 
the  table  cloth. 

"It's  nothing,"  said  Estabrook  soothingly — 
prompted  to  speak  thus  by  the  expression  of  dis- 
may on  the  youth's  face. 

The  famished  man  continued  to  eat  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened.  The  men  at  the  round  table 
paid  no  heed  to  the  crash  of  glass,  beyond  the 
most  casual  glances.  But  Beakman,  with  lowered 
brows,  was  staring  at  the  man  he  had  called 
Whispers,  and  noting  an  expression  as  of  un- 
holy triumph  in  his  eyes. 


49 


Chapter  VII 
The  Confederate 

MADAM  JOAN  appeared  in  the  doorway 
at  that  instant — like  a  stellar  performer 
in  a  drama  for  whose  entrance  a  situation  of  a 
certain  psychological  stress  has  been  created. 
Some  sort  of  mechanical  musical  instrument  in  the 
private  rooms  above  had  been  set  in  motion  and 
the  sound  of  it  had  served  to  cover  her  footfall 
on  the  stairs. 

She  paused  on  the  threshold  an  instant  to  insure 
a  measure  of  impressiveness  to  her  entrance,  and 
then  she  advanced  into  the  room. 

Madam  Joan's  quality,  her  studiously  affected 
pose,  was  along  the  line  of  homely  comfort.  She 
knew  her  limitations.  She  was  too  large  for 
pretty  coquetries — too  large  and  by  no  means 
sufficiently  good-looking.  She  was  too  robust  for 
an  effect  of  stateliness.  A  pensive  aloofness  on 
the  one  hand,  and  a  comic  familiarity  on  the 
other,  she  had  rejected  as  a  business  policy  of 
questionable  value.  There  remained  the  note  of 
wholesome  comfort,  and  this  she  had  learned  to 
strike  with  unequivocal  success. 

SO 


The  Confederate 

She  now  paused  at  Estabrook's  table.  Her 
shrewd  eye  detected  the  fact  that  he  was  a  stran- 
ger ;  it  perceived  something  of  his  quality.  "Mon- 
sieur has  been  properly  served?"  she  inquired. 
As  she  spoke  her  glance  rested  in  passing  upon 
the  derelict.  It  touched  him  like  an  acid  and  left 
him  instantaneously  when  it  became  plain  that  he 
was  not  what  Madam  would  have  designated  as 
gold.  It  took  in  the  timid  youth  in  a  manner  so 
casual  that  Estabrook  knew  that  youth  must  be 
in  some  degree  a  regular  patron  of  the  place. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  he  said. 

She  was  not  unmindful  of  the  fact  that  he  only 
whispered  the  words.  She  created  subtly  an  effect 
of  sympathy  without  seeming  to  note  his  vocal 
inadequacy.  She  frowned  delicately  at  sight  of 
the  broken  glass  on  the  table.  Then  she  moved 
on  to  where  Beakman  sat  alone.  "Ah,  mon- 
sieur!" she  said,  as  if  her  happiness  had  been 
completed  by  finding  him  there. 

At  that  moment  the  timid  youth  at  Estabrook's 
table  arose  and  went  to  the  cashier's  desk,  and 
then  he  left  the  room,  going  by  way  of  the  stair- 
way which  ascended  to  the  floors  above. 

When  Estabrook  turned  his  attention  to  Madam 
Joan  again  she  was  standing  over  by  the  round 
table,  distributing  cheerful  remarks  among  the 
half-dozen  men  who  sat  there.  And  finally  she 
moved  over  to  the  cashier's  desk  with  a  manner 


Whispers 

indicating  that,  after  all,  that  was  where  her  real 
business  lay. 

Estabrook  left  his  table  now.  He  spoke  a  part- 
ing word  to  the  derelict:  "Take  your  time;  and 
•. — good-night."  He  picked  up  the  two  checks 
which  lay  near  his  plate  and  approached  the 
cashier. 

Madam  left  off  asking  the  cashier  questions  as 
he  drew  near,  and  again  she  smiled  at  him.  She 
noted  the  fact  that  he  placed  two  checks  on  th'e 
desk  and  she  understood  perfectly,  she  thought, 
the  presence  of  an  alien  type  of  diner  in  her  room. 
"Monsieur  is  a  Good  Samaritan,"  she  said.  She 
liked  Good  Samaritans,  because  they  were  not 
ones  to  complain  when  they  were  overcharged. 

He  did  not  reply  to  this  specifically.  "You 
have  a  very  pleasant  dining  room,"  he  said. 
"And  famous,  too.  I've  heard  of  it  long  before  I 
knew  I  should  ever  see  it." 

Her  eyes  really  brightened.  "How  very  nice  !" 
she  said.  She  spoke  English  in  a  manner  which 
would  have  elicited  no  comment  among  her  Ameri- 
can patrons  save  only  that  she  enunciated  her 
words  rather  more  precisely  than  they  are  com- 
monly enunciated,  and  occasionally  she  placed 
her  accents  rather  unexpectedly.  "But  that  would 
apply  to  the  rooms  above — not  to  this  one,"  she 
added.  "Some  evening  Monsieur  might  visit  one 
of  the  dining  rooms  «/>-stairs." 

52 


The  Confederate 

"Still  it's  very  nice  here.  Those  gentlemen  at 
the  round  table " 

"From  the  Fidette"  she  rather  eagerly  in- 
formed him. 

"Ah,  newspaper  men." 

"Yes.  The  one  who  is  smiling — he  is  just  light- 
ing his  cigarette — that  is  their  chief,  Monsieur 
Campbell.  Many  newspaper  men  are  to  be  found 
here.  The  gentleman  who  sits  alone — he  seems 
to  be  dreaming — he  is  of  the  News:  Monsieur 
Beakman.  There  are  always  a  few." 

"And  the  man  who  sat  at  my  table — who  has 
just  gone  up-stairs — is  he  a  newspaper  man  also?" 

Madam  pondered.  Her  eyes  were  clouded, 
and  then  they  beamed.  "Oh,  now  I  wwderstand," 
she  said.  "He — poor  gentleman — is  without  a 
post  of  any  kind,  it  seems.  He  has  been  with  me 
one  month.  He  leaves  to-morrow.  He  has  found 
nothing  to  do.  In  so  large  a  city — it  seems  sad." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  asking  her  if  her  rooms 
were  all  engaged.  Just  at  that  moment  he  had 
decided  that  there  might  be  a  special  advantage  in 
his  stopping  for  a  week  or  so  at  least  at  Madam 
Joan's.  But  a  waitress  with  a  somewhat  worried 
air  approached  before  he  could  speak;  and 
Madam,  after  a  confidential  word  or  two  with 
the  girl,  hurried  away  to  the  regions  above. 

"That  can  be.  attended  to  later,"  mused  Esta« 
brook;  and  then  he  turned  and  leaned  against  the 
cashier's  desk  in  a  position  which  enabled  him  to 

53 


Whispers 

make  a  deliberate  survey  of  the  group  of  men 
from  the  Vidette.  In  a  moment  he  had  arrived 
at  a  decision.  He  sauntered  across  the  room  in 
a  manner  so  casual  as  to  suggest  loitering;  yet 
already  he  had  fixed  his  eyes  upon  Campbell's 
face  with  a  certain  purposefulness.  He  paused  at 
the  table  where  the  Vidette  men  sat;  and  when 
Campbell  glanced  at  him  inquiringly  he  said: 

"Mr.  Campbell,  I  think?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"If  my  action  isn't  ill-timed  ...  I  think  per- 
haps you'd  be  interested  in  learning  who  it  was 
that  slew  old  Pheneas  Drumm?" 

A  polite  laugh  went  round  the  table,  led  by 
Campbell.  "I'd  be  very  much  interested  indeed," 
said  the  Vidette' s  city  editor. 

"I'd  like  to  undertake  to  locate  the  man  for 
you — say  within  the  next  forty-eight  hours  or  so." 

Campbell's  air  of  amusement  was  succeeded  by 
one  of  frank  amazement.  He  could  not  help  be- 
ing impressed  by  the  whispering  voice  and  by 
other  forces  and  qualities  which  for  the  moment 
he  could  not  at  all  define.  "You're  a  newspaper 
man,  perhaps?"  he  asked.  And  then  noting  that 
Beakman,  at  his  distant  table,  was  watching  the 
little  drama  at  the  Vidette  table  with  curious  in- 
tensity, he  added,  "You  might  call  at  the  Vidette 
office  to-morrow,  if  you're  applying  for  a  place." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Estabrook.  "Good-night." 
He  turned  away  promptly,  while  the  men  at  the 

54 


The  Confederate 

table  followed  him  with  their  glances,  in  which 
amusement  was  mingled  with  serious  questioning. 

He  would  have  passed  Beakman  on  his  way  out 
without  accosting  him.  But  Beakman  willed  it 
otherwise.  He  arose  with  an  air  of  sarcastic  pat- 
ronage. "It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "that  you 
have  found  Madam  Joan's  pretty  early  in  the 
game,  considering  that  you  are  in  the  city  to-night 
for  the  first  time."  He  paused  a  moment  and 
then  added,  as  if  explaining,  "This  dining  room 
here  is  a  sort  of  headquarters  for  newspaper 
men."  He  thought  his  words  shrewdly  discon- 
certing. 

"I'd  heard  of  Madam  Joan's  in  Detroit,  where 
I  ran  into  a  chap  who  had  formerly  worked  on 
the  News  here,"  he  replied. 

Beakman  flushed.  Time  and  again  he  had 
thought  to  confuse  this  youth  by  the  unexpected- 
ness of  his  questions — and  always  he  had  been 
answered  fully,  yet  with  perfect  simplicity.  He 
began  anew:  "You  were  rather  in  a  hurry  to  get 
away  from  me  to-night,"  he  said.  "If  you'd 
waited  a  minute  or  two  I  might  have  thought  of 
something  for  you  to  do." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Estabrook;  "but  I'm  think- 
ing of  doing  a  little  work  for  the  Fidette.  I've 
been  speaking  to  Mr.  Campbell;  and  it  seems 
likely  that  I'll  become  his — what  was  the  word 
you  used  to-night? — his  confederate.  Good- 


night." 


'55 


Whispers 

He  was  destined  to  be  halted  once  again.  The 
derelict  for  whom  he  had  paid  for  a  meal  was 
just  leaving  the  dining  room.  As  Estabrook 
passed  the  man  stood  in  his  way.  "This  card 
you  gave  me,"  he  said.  "It's  a  back  number 
now,  no?  You  don't  work  for  the  Boston  Tran- 
script no  more?" 

Estabrook  took  the  card  from  his  hand  and 
considered  it.  "Yes,  it's  a  back  number  now," 
he  said. 

"But  if  a  guy  wanted  to  see  you — not  to  bum 
you  for  nothin',  y'understand,  but  maybe " 

The  newspaper  man  paused  in  indecision  for 
just  an  instant;  and  then  he  produced  a  pencil. 
He  crossed  out  the  name  of  the  Boston  Tran- 
script and  wrote  instead  The  Missouri  City  Fi- 
dette.  He  handed  back  the  card.  "I  think  that's 
going  to  be  my  address  for  a  while,"  he  said. 

He  felt  that  he  could  do  no  less  for  this  poor 
devil.  He  had  used  the  man.  He  had  bought 
food  for  him  so  that  he  might  remain  longer  at 
table,  watching  the  timid  youth  whose  hand  trem- 
bled in  a  tell-tale  manner.  It  is  true  that  he  had 
been  genuinely  moved  by  the  spectacle  of  a  man 
staring  covetously  at  dry  bread.  He  had  been 
glad  to  lend  him  a  hand.  He  knew  what  hunger 
was.  Still,  the  man  had  served  his  purpose. 

He  left  the  dining-room  now.  Leisurely  he 
climbed  the  stairs  to  Madam  Joan's  private  din- 
ing-rooms. 

•56 


Chapter  VIII 
The  Two  Journals 

BEAKMAN  also  left  Madam  Joan's  public 
dining-room  a  few  minutes  later.  There 
was  no  one  there  for  him  to  talk  to.  He  had  re- 
mained longer  than  was  quite  agreeable  to  him 
in  the  hope  that  some  of  the  News  men  would 
drop  in.  But  they  had  not  done  so.  In  truth, 
the  men  on  the  News  preferred  to  gather  at 
Madam  Joan's  when  it  was  reasonably  certain 
that  the  city  editor  would  not  be  there.  There 
was  scarcely  one  of  them  who  liked  him  person- 
ally. They  all  agreed  that  he  was  a  very  superior 
city  editor,  but  they  could  not  take  kindly  to  his 
manner:  to  his  moments  of  condescension,  to  his 
untimely  assumption  of  authority,  to  his  heavily 
gay  spirit  of  banter.  They  manifested  toward 
him  a  spirit  of  spurious  cordiality  when  they 
ran  into  him,  but  if  they  saw  him  first  they  turned 
and  went  away. 

He  should  have  liked  to  ascend  the  stairs  and 
mingle  with  Madam  Joan's  more  romantic  guests. 
But  for  once  he  felt  impelled  to  act  otherwise. 
The  disconcerting  youth  with  the  whispering 

57 


Whispers 

voice  had  gone  that  way;  and  Beakman  rather 
preferred  not  to  encounter  him  again  that  night. 
And  so  he  decided  to  assume  the  pose  of  one  who 
has  looked  the  world  over  and  has  found  that 
there  is  nothing  in  it.  He  would  go  home  and 
to  bed. 

When  he  had  gone  there  was  a  sudden  putting 
aside  of  certain  restraints  among  the  men  at  the 
Fidette  table.  Campbell,  with  a  soberness  almost 
amounting  to  gravity,  spoke : 

"It  would  seem  like  a  coincidence,  their  being 
here  together:  Beakman  and  that  mysterious  chap 
looking  for  work." 

One  of  the  reporters,  Ellison  by  name,  replied : 
"It  may  be  the  beginning  of  one  of  Beakman's 
elephantine  strategies." 

"Elephantine?"  echoed  Bliss,  another  reporter. 

"Yes,"  declared  Ellison,  "elephantine.  There's 
nothing  to  Beakman,  if  that's  what  you  mean. 
You  can't  argue  that  a  man  gets  anywhere  these 
days  by  being  a  crooked  little  bully.  The  News 
is  an  organ.  It's  got  back  of  it  the  party  that 
controls  the  town.  When  a  News  man  goes  out  to 
get  a  story  the  door  opens  and  what  he  wants 
is  brought  to  him  on  a  silver  platter.  A  Fidette 
man,  on  the  same  mission,  finds  the  door  barred. 
When  he's  battered  the  door  down  he's  got  to  go 
in  and  search  among  the  secret  places  for  what  he 
wants.  That's  the  difference." 

Campbell  seemed  not  to  be  paying  heed  to  this. 

58 


The  Two  Journals 

He  was  pondering.  "I  don't  think  it  was  one  of 
Beakman's  strategies,"  he  said.  "I  couldn't  hear 
what  the  young  fellow  said  to  him — what  a  voice 
the  poor  chap's  got,  anyway!  What  could  be  the 
cause  of  it?" 

No  one  had  a  reply  to  this;  and  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence  Bliss  said,  "I  couldn't  hear,  either; 
but  it  was  easy  to  be  seen  that  Beakman  hated  the 


man." 


Campbell  spoke  again,  more  eagerly:  "You 
noticed  that,  did  you?  I  thought  the  same.  And 
yet  he  showed  a  sort  of  conciliatory  manner " 

"Beakman — yes,  he  did,"  said  Bliss.  "I  was 
just  thinking  he  must  have  known  the  man  before. 
Though  he's  never  worked  in  Missouri  City — 
the  whispering  chap,  I  mean — in  the  past  fifteen 
years,  to  my  positive  knowledge.  That  is,  if  he's 
really  a  newspaper  man." 

Ellison,  lighting  a  fresh  cigarette,  asked  be- 
tween puffs,  "But  wouldn't  you  have  suspected 
him  of  being  some  sort  of  bug,  rather  than  a 
newspaper  man?  Imagine  any  one  of  us  saying 
we'd  like  to  run  down  this  Drumm  case  within 
twenty-four  hours !" 

There  was  an  exchange  of  persiflage  among  the 
reporters  in  the  group  to  which  Campbell  listened 
with  good-humor  before  he  said,  "I  think  he's  a 
newspaper  man.  I  grant  there  was  something  a 
little  extraordinary  in  the  way  he  appeared  here. 
But  I'm  rather  hoping  he'll  be  engaged  to  work 

59 


Whispers 

with  us  by  this  time  to-morrow."  Knowing  that 
none  of  the  men  would  like  to  ask  if  he  meant 
to  put  the  new-comer  on  the  Drumm  case,  he 
added,  "If  we  could  beat  the  News  in  finding  out 
what  really  happened  around  in  old  Drumm's 
shop  it  would  give  us  a  boost.  If  this  chap  proves 
to  be  genuine  I  think  I'll  call  his  hand.  He  said 
forty-eight  hours.  I'd  be  willing  to  give  him 
forty-eight  days.  Everybody  would  like  to  know 
what's  back  of  the  Drumm  tragedy.  There  was 
a  kind  of  glamour  about  the  old  man.  I  never 
knew  anything  about  him — but  that's  it.  No- 
body did,  seemingly.  Was  he  really  fabulously 
wealthy,  as  rumor  has  it?  And  if  so,  where  did 
he  get  his  money?  Did  he  steal  an  idol's  eye? — 
and  did  he  have  an  Indian  vendetta  concealed 
about  his  person?  Was  he  alone  in  the  world? — 
or  was  there  a  woman,  or  women,  in  the  back- 
ground? Was  he  an  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim  char- 
acter, or  just  a  lonely  old  dealer  in  masks,  eking 
out  a  scanty  livelihood,  as  the  phrase-books  have 
it?  That's  what  the  public  would  like  to  know. 

And  if  we  could  beat  the  News  to  it " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  It  was  the  sort 
of  sentence  which  implies  more  when  it  is  left 
incomplete.  But  during  the  silence  which  ensued 
a  kind  of  constraint  took  possession  of  every  man 
at  the  table.  They  were  all  thinking  how  diffi- 
cult it  was  to  "beat  the  News  to  it"  in  anything. 
More  depressing  still,  they  were  thinking  how 

60 


The  Two  Journals 

pretense  and  bombast  and  assurance  seemed  to 
carry  men  further  on  the  News  than  genuine  merit 
carried  other  men  on  the  Fidette.  A  good  story 
seemed  almost  to  lose  virtue  when  it  was  printed 
in  the  Fidette;  a  poor  story  acquired  merits  which 
were  not  at  all  inherent,  when  it  was  printed  in  the 
News.  The  one  paper  had  the  crowd  with  it,  the 
other  had  not. 

And  being  for  the  most  part  rather  young  men, 
they  hated  the  News  for  its  undeserved  success, 
and  hated  the  men  who  owned  it,  who  were  greedy 
for  profits  for  themselves,  and  coldly  indifferent 
to  the  wellbeing  of  the  men  who  served  them. 

It  was  Ellison  who  ended  the  almost  clamor- 
ous silence  and  introduced  again  the  quieter  ele- 
ment of  spoken  words.  Said  he :  "What  they  need 
is  a  bunch  of  good,  old-fashioned  Nihilists  over 
on  the  News:  a  nice  collection  of  chaps  who  would 
begin  by  dropping  Beakman  out  of  a  thirteenth- 
story  window.  He's  not  a  city  editor.  He's  a 
czar." 

The  other  men  laughed  at  the  absurdity  of  this. 
And  then  Campbell  said,  "You  can't  put  too  much 
blame  on  Beakman.  He's  the  right  man  in  the 
right  place  for  the  owners  of  the  News.  The 
reason  the  News  is  an  evil  force  in  the  town  is — 
well,  the  whole  thing  is  a  case  of  malignant  second 
generation.  The  people  who  own  the  plant  never 
had  to  earn  a  dollar  in  their  lives.  They  had  only 
to  grow  up  and  inherit:  to  inherit  control  of 

61 


Whispers 

a  money-making  newspaper.  There's  not  a  single 
first-class  mind  among  the  owners  of  the  News 
to-day.  But  they've  all  learned  to  dance  when 
the  powers  fiddle.  They  accept  places  on  com- 
mittees, their  thumbs  are  up  or  down,  according 
as  the  thumbs  of  the  powers  are  up  or  down. 
They're  eligible  for  places  on  all  sorts  of  boards 
of  management,  when  lay  figures  are  needed. 
They  have  enough  flesh  on  their  bones  to  wear 
evening  clothes  well.  They  have  mastered  the 
game  of  propriety.  But  there — the  tide  will  turn. 
We're  getting  out  a  better  newspaper  than  the 
News.  Everybody  who  knows  admits  it.  You 
see,  we've  got  to  create  the  Fidette  habit  among 
the  people.  What  I  mean  is  that  nine  persons  out 
of  ten  take  a  newspaper  bcause  they  have  become 
accustomed  to  it  by  one  process  or  another.  They 
may  disagree  with  it,  they  may  hate  it — but 
they've  had  it  so  long  they  can't  be  happy  with- 
out it.  It's  like  having  a  scolding  wife.  Well, 
we've  got  to  peg  along  until  we  get  a  sufficient 
number  of  persons  to  acquire  the  Fidette  habit. 
Only,  we  want  to  be  sure  that  it's  a  good  habit. 
What  we  have  to  do  is  to  have  patience — and 
work  like  all  out  of  doors.  I'm  sure  of  one 
thing:  that  merit  tells  in  the  end.  If  that  isn't 
true,  I  want  to  keep  on  believing  it,  anyway.  But 
it  is  true." 

He  arose  with  a  whimsical  light  in  his  eyes. 
"In  the  meanwhile,"  he  added,  "I  think  a  little 

62 


The  Two  Journals 

sleep  will  do  me  more  good  than  knocking  my 
neighbors.    Good-night." 

He  went  away  from  Madam  Joan's  in  a  mood 
which  was  a  little  closer  to  despondency  than  any 
he  had  experienced  for  many  months.  He  went 
away  without  knowing  that  the  tide  was  beginning 
to  turn  in  his  favor — in  favor  of  the  Fidette — 
that  very  night.  But  already,  for  the  moment, 
he  had  forgotten  all  about  the  man  whose  speech 
was  a  soft  succession  of  whispers. 


A  New  Lodger 

WHEN  Estabrook  mounted  the  stairs  lead- 
ing to  Madam  Joan's  upper  dining-rooms 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  pretty  definitely  what  he 
should  be  able  to  do,  what  he  was  going  to  do. 
He  was  going  to  work  for  the  Fidette.  That,  for 
the  present,  was  the  main  thing.  His  work  would 
begin  at  about  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  That 
was  the  hour  at  which  work  always  began  on  a 
morning  newspaper.  He  should  want  to  get  up 
any  time  between  ten  o'clock  and  noon.  Those 
were  the  hours  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed 
during  most  of  his  experiences  as  a  newspaper 
man.  There  was  no  need  of  his  going  to  bed 
before  two — and  at  present  he  felt  no  need  of 
sleep  or  rest. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  half  past  one. 
He  might  take  another  half  hour  to  get  his  bear- 
ings, to  acquire  the  sense  of  being  settled  again 
and  at  home. 

He  meant  to  do  good  work  for  the  Fidette. 
He  liked  Campbell's  manner  and  appearance. 
He  liked  the  appearance  of  the  other  Fidette 

64 


A  New  Lodger 

men,  too.  And  he  knew  that  he  had  no  use  for 
Beakman  or  for  Beakman's  kind.  The  stage 
was  properly  set  for  lively  competition,  for 
spirited  rivalry — and  they  were  the  wine  which 
made  newspaper  work  fascinating.  The  almost 
endless  hours  and  the  inadequate  compensation — 
as  it  nearly  always  was — might  be  given  a  second 
place  in  his  thoughts  because  of  the  stimulant 
which  the  work  itself  would  provide.  He  needed 
to  earn  money  too,  of  course.  He  had  a  special 
incentive  to  earn  and  save  money.  But  he  had 
learned  from  one  drifting  reporter  or  another,  in 
his  journeys  about  the  country,  that  the  Fidette 
paid  better  salaries  than  the  News.  And  so  he 
felt  that  fortune  had  favored  him  in  that  he  had 
taken  a  liking  to  Campbell  rather  than  to  Beak- 
man. 

He  meant  to  write  the  story  of  the  Drumm 
murder  for  the  Fidette.  He  had  no  doubt  at  all 
of  his  ability  to  discover  all  the  facts.  The  key 
to  the  crime  had  already  been  placed  in  his  hand. 
The  youth  with  the  trembling  hands  who  had  sat 
at  his  table — who  had  almost  collapsed  at  the 
name  of  Pheneas  Drumm — he  was  the  key.  Was 
he  the  actual  slayer  of  the  old  man?  It  seemed 
improbable.  But  if  not,  he  knew  something  about 
the  crime.  Almost  certainly  he  knew  a  good  deal 
about  it.  At  least  he  was  acquainted  with  facts, 
with  circumstances,  which  would  lead  to  the  un- 
covering of  other  facts.  His  haunted  eyes  had 

65 


Whispers 

told  a  tale  of  guilt,  of  nothing  less,  when  the  men 
at  the  Fidette  table  had  spoken  casually  of  the 
crime.  It  was  by  no  means  impossible  that  the 
young  fellow  was  himself  the  actual  slayer.  Esta- 
brook  knew  that  there  is  no  rule  governing  deeds 
of  violence.  By  their  very  nature  they  must  trans- 
pire without  reference  to  rules.  Even  the  studi- 
ously planned  crime  has  back  of  it  those  obscuri- 
ties in  human  nature  which  set  most  rules  at 
naught.  Thus  he  concluded  that  even  a  timid- 
appearing  rustic,  with  a  gentle  manner  and  a 
mild  eye  and  a  pleasing  voice,  might  also  be  a 
member  of  the  great  army  of  Cains.  An  unwit- 
ting or  an  unpremeditating  Cain,  perhaps — 
though  possibly  a  Cain  from  choice,  capable  of  a 
weird  ecstasy  at  the  sight  of  his  own  hands  drip- 
ping with  red. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairway  he  hesitated  with 
slightly  quickened  pulse.  He  seemed  really  to 
have  intruded  upon  the  privacy  of  a  considerable 
number  of  persons.  And  though  Estabrook  had 
trained  himself  to  go  blithely  enough  among  all 
classes  and  kinds  of  men — financiers,  prelates, 
statesmen,  criminals  and  mobs — he  had  never 
overcome  his  reluctance  to  intrude  upon  men  and 
women  at  their  meals. 

He  found  himself  in  a  small  dining-room 
which  boasted — not  quite  convincingly  to  his  mind 
— of  elegance.  The  air  was  heavy  with  Turkish 
tobacco  smoke,  through  which  he  caught  a  waver- 

66 


A  New  Lodger 

ing  impression  of  mirrors  and  gilded  panels  and 
gaudy  hangings.  Through  two  doorways  he  per- 
ceived other  similar  rooms;  and  beyond  these 
there  were  still  others — all  presenting  to  his  eye 
their  tranquilly  drifting  wreaths  of  blue  and 
brown  smoke. 

Without  quite  seeming  to  regard  the  persons 
occupying  these  rooms,  he  yet  received  an  instan- 
taneous impression  of  lustful  eyes,  of  hair  cyni- 
cally untidy,  of  complexions  too  candidly  brilliant; 
of  dissipated,  ogre-like  men,  and  of  women  who 
had  gone  stale  from  running  breathlessly  down 
the  streets  of  the  world  in  their  quest  for  joy. 

No  one  heeded  him,  save  that  here  and  there 
a  side-long  glance,  with  an  affectation  of  absent- 
mindedness,  took  him  in  as  he  passed.  He  went 
through  one  room  after  another  with  an  air  which 
might  have  seemed  to  convey  a  modest  apology; 
and  finally  he  came  upon  a  sort  of  office.  Also 
he  came  upon  Madam  Joan. 

For  the  moment  she  was  behind  a  desk,  with 
the  effect  of  being  enthroned.  She  wore  a 
priestess-like  air,  authoritative  yet  languid.  Es- 
tabrook  noted  now  how  she  was  dressed;  and  it 
struck  him  that  she  possessed  the  genius  of  her 
race  in  being  able  to  wear  more  than  a  little  finery 
without  seeming  to  be  pretentiously  dressed.  It 
was  as  if  she  wore  a  gown  which  had  evolved  itself 
from  her  own  characteristics,  rather  than  a  uni- 
form of  fashion.  She  smiled  brightly,  even  bril- 


Whispers 

liantly,  when  he  approached  her  desk.  "Ah, 
monsieur!"  she  exclaimed.  She  seemed  to  be  sim- 
ply amiable,  though  Estabrook  knew  that  she  was 
appraising  him  with  practised  shrewdness. 

"I  should  have  spoken  to  you  before,  when  1 
had  the  chance,"  he  said,  "but  you  got  away  from 
me.  I  wanted  to  ask  if  you  could  let  me  have  a 
room." 

For  an  instant  she  seemed  to  look  at  nothing — 
as  if  thisi  room  and  that  were  passing  before  her 
in  review.  Her  eyes  rested  upon  his  again.  "We 
might  see,"  she  said.  She  produced  a  bunch  of 
keys  and  joined  him  on  the  outer  side  of  the  desk. 
"This  way,"  she  added. 

She  seemed  to  be  inviting  him  to  reveal  himself 
a  little  more  fully  as  they  ascended  yet  another 
flight  of  stairs.  They  came  within  a  region  of 
restful  shadows  and  a  comparative  silence — with 
a  tangle  of  cheerful  echoes  for  a  background. 
When  she  glanced  at  him  with  a  certain  air  of 
inquiry  he  said — 

"I  expect  to  go  to  work  on  the  Ftdette  to-mor- 
row— that  is,  to-day.  It's  not  quite  settled,  but  I 
hope  it  will  be.  And  I  should  wish  to  be  located 
near  my  work.  Besides,  you've  a  very  cheerful 
place,  Madam.  I  felt  quite  at  home  in  your  public 
dining-room.  I  met  the  Fidette  men  after  you 
had  gone.  I  had  a  word  with  Beakman,  of  the 
News,  too.  The  atmosphere  seemed  entirely  con- 
genial." 

68 


A  New  Lodger 

"Ah!"  she  said  cheerfully,  as  if  she  needed  no 
further  explanation.  She  singled  out  a  key.  "I 
think  I  have  a  room  which  would  suit  you  very 
well.  A  trifle  small,  perhaps,  but  charmingly 
quiet." 

She  stopped  and  unlocked  a  door.  She  stepped 
inside  the  door;  and  in  an  instant  a  bright  light 
flooded  the  room. 

His  vague  fear  of  fustian  and  dust  vanished. 
He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  fresh  white  linen,  of 
rounded  pillows.  There  was  furniture  which 
struck  him  as  being  distinctly  a  man's  furniture. 
And  neither  on  walls  nor  table  was  there  a  trace 
of  that  ten-cent-store  bric-a-brac  which  forever 
renders  a  room  an  alien  place  to  men  or  women 
who  must  at  times  be  birds  of  passage. 

"Just  the  thing,"  he  said  emphatically.  "I'd 
like  to  have  it  this  week,  at  least — and  perhaps 
permanently." 

Madam  Joan  construed  this  as  a  gentlemanly 
way  of  arriving  at  the  question  of  price.  She  con- 
sidered an  instant.  She  always  had  rooms  to 
spare;  and  it  was  wise  to  have  a  few  quite  legiti- 
mate guests  in  her  house.  She  named  a  price,  by 
the  week,  which  really  surprised  Estabrook. 

"It's  mine,"  he  said  emphatically.  He  flung  his 
hat  upon  the  nearest  chair  as  if  in  token  that  he 
had  taken  possession.  He  added  with  a  smile, 
"My  trunk  will  not  be  here  until  I  buy  one — and 
so  perhaps  I'd  better  pay  in  advance." 

69 


Whispers 

But  Madam  lightly  demurred.  It  would  be 
quite  sufficient  if  he  stopped  at  his  leisure,  on  some 
occasion  when  he  was  passing  her  desk.  It  was 
her  theory  that  a  wary  landlady  makes  a  wary 
guest — and  she  did  not  like  to  entertain  wary 
guests.  She  was  about  to  withdraw  when  Esta- 
brook  detained  her  with  a  question — 

"And,  Madam — the  young  man  who  sat  at  my 
table  to-night — whom  you  spoke  of  as  meaning  to 
leave  to-morrow——" 

"Ah,  a  sad  case.  He  wished  earnestly  to  lo- 
cate himself  in  the  city,  but  it  seems  no  one  needs 
him." 

But  Estabrook  shook  his  head  decisively. 
"That  couldn't  be  true,"  he  declared.  "Men  are 
always  needed,  everywhere — the  right  kind  of 
men.  The  trouble  with  most  young  chaps  is  that 
they  don't  know  how  to  find  a  place,  though  there 
may  be  places  all  about  them  needing  to  be  filled. 
,You  have  to  be  a  bit  forward,  you  know — I  mean, 
a  man  looking  for  a  job.  You  almost  have  to 
say — 'This  is  my  place.  I'm  going  to  take  it.' 
The  big  fellows  like. that.  It  makes  them  think: 
'There's  something  to  that  boy.  He's  got  the 
right  stuff  in  him.'  I'll  tell  you  about  this — what 
did  you  say  his  name  was?" 

With  all  her  shrewdness  Madam  did  not  stop 
to  realize  that  she  had  not  really  said  what  her 
guest's  name  was.  "Cape,"  she  replied.  "Philip 
Cape." 

70 


A  New  Lodger 

"Well,  when  you  see  him  again  suggest  to  him 
that  he  might  speak  to  me  to  his  advantage.  I'll 
be  getting  about  a  good  bit.  I  might  be  able  to 
help  him,  you  know.  And  thank  you  for  so  com- 
fortable a  room,  Madam.  Good-night." 


Chapter  X 
Cape  Comes  in 

HE  sat  down  in  one  of  the  two  chairs  the 
room  contained  and  listened  to  Madam's 
retreating  footsteps  until  they  could  be  heard  no 
more. 

Almost  unconsciously  he  had  been  taking  in  his 
surroundings  detail  by  detail.  The  room  in  which 
he  sat  had  an  atmosphere  of  remoteness — as  if 
it  were  a  retreat,  or  a  sort  of  pocket,  rather  than 
a  stopping-place  on  a  highway.  That  was  his  first 
impression.  It  might  prove  a  very  suitable  room 
for  confidences.  It  might  tend  to  inspire  them. 

There  was  a  tall,  old-fashioned  wardrobe  over 
against  the  wall.  He  noted  that  it  had  two  com- 
partments, an  upper  and  a  lower  one.  The  lower 
compartment,  equipped  with  doors  which  were  in- 
dependent of  the  compartment  above,  was  meant 
to  hang  clothes  in.  A  very  useful  cabinet,  he  de- 
cided— for  one  who  had  clothes  to  hang  in  it. 
He  smiled  grimly  as  he  thought  how  nearly  his 
own  store  of  clothing  was  represented  by  what 
he  had  on  his  back.  The  upper  compartment, 
some  two  feet  high  and  with  a  door  of  its  own, 

72 


Cape  Comes  In 

was  meant  to  contain  hats,  perhaps,  or  undercloth- 
ing. It  was  quite  small. 

His  room  looked  out  upon  an  elevator  shaft. 
That  was  one  of  the  details  he  noted.  The  build- 
ing was  equipped  with  elevator  service,  then. 
He  had  not  suspected  this  when  he  had  climbed 
the  two  stairways  which  ascended  from  the  side 
entrance  to  the  building.  He  drew  the  conclusion 
that  there  might  be  a  more  or  less  pretentious 
front  entrance  to  Madam  Joan's — a  fact  which  he 
should  have  been  able  to  guess  without  the  hint 
of  that  elevator  shaft.  And  he  made  a  note  of 
the  fact  that  if  occasion  arose  he  might  descend 
to  the  street  without  touching  Madam's  dining 
rooms,  without  seeing  or  being  seen  by  Madam's 
guests — without  being  seen  even  by  Madam  her- 
self. 

He  slowly  relaxed  more  completely  in  his  chair, 
as  an  invitation  to  slumber.  But  the  need  of  slum- 
ber seemed  still  far  from  him.  Instead  of  slumber, 
a  period  of  wakeful  dreaming  came  to  him.  He 
pictured  the  work  which  lay  ahead  of  him,  the 
probable  aspects  of  the  city  in  which  he  had  come 
to  labor.  And  presently  his  mind  was  dwelling 
curiously  on  the  character  and  fate  of  poor  old 
Pheneas  Drumm.  The  old  man  would  have  taken 
his  very  informal  ride  to  the  morgue  by  this  time. 
The  body  was  lying  in  the  morgue  now,  no  doubt: 
lying  in  the  most  absolute  of  all  democratic  condi- 
tions, in  company  with  the  bodies  of  nameless 

73 


Whispers 

mendicants,  and  suicides  drawn  from  the  river, 
and  worn-out  creatures  hauled  to  their  marble 
slabs  from  cheap  lodging  houses,  from  vacant  lots, 
from  dark  alleys  and  area-ways.  The  old  dealer 
in  masks  would  be  keeping  company  with  strange 
men  to-night,  but  with  all  masks  and  masking  he 
was  done  forever. 

He  shook  off  the  dark  mood  which  was  creep- 
ing upon  him.  He  thought  of  the  newspapers 
which  he  hoped  to  become  more  deeply  interested 
in — the  one  as  the  courier  of  his  own  ideas  and 
craftsmanship,  the  other  as  a  rival.  The  hour 
for  their  appearance  on  the  street  was  approach- 
ing; and  he  wondered  which  of  the  two  would 
tell  the  neater,  completer  tale  of  old  Drumm's  life 
and  death.  Whether  for  good  or  ill  it  was  true 
that  the  greater  part  of  the  public  always  turned 
with  a  certain  fascination  to  a  murder  tale  and 
read  it  through  though  in  adjacent  columns  there 
might  be  told  the  tale  of  kingdoms  falling. 

He  pictured  how  the  grisly  chronicle  would 
read.  First  there  would  be  the  naked  announce- 
ment of  the  fact,  falling  like  a  bolt.  Then  would 
follow  the  details  as  to  time  and  place  and  a  kind 
of  pen-portrait  of  the  victim.  Something  would 
be  said  of  his  place  in  the  community;  and  then, 
more  than  likely,  there  would  be  a  little  room 
given  to  theories — to  the  theories  advanced  by  the 
police.  These  would  be  tediously  stereotyped. 
*'It  was  not  known  that  he  had  any  enemies" — 

74 


Cape  Comes  In 

that  was  one  of  the  sentences  one  might  be  sure 
to  look  for. 

Estabrook  forsook  his  picture  of  the  morning 
newspapers  for  one  which  took  its  place  in  his 
mind  with  greater  authenticity — the  picture  of  the 
slayer.  There  lay  the  fact  which  alone  possessed 
significance  now — that  the  slayer  was  still  un- 
known and  at  large.  He  had  no  doubt  that  the 
world's  fiercest  unrest  must  rage  in  the  conscience 
of  a  man  who  has  done  an  irrevocable,  evil  deed, 
who  has  placed  upon  himself  the  brand  of  Cain 
to  wear  until  doomsday,  who  has  placed  a  bar- 
rier between  himself  and  all  contented  men  until 
the  end  of  time. 

This  thought  had  taken  shape  in  his  mind  with 
amazing  clarity  when  something  caused  him  to 
start  alertly.  He  had  heard  a  faltering  footstep 
somewhere  on  the  carpeted  corridor  outside  his 
room. 

As  if  he  had  guessed  whom  the  stealthy  passer- 
by might  be  he  banished  from  his  face  the  somber 
expression  which  he  knew  must  repose  there.  He 
donned  an  almost  languid  air:  an  air  suggesting 
the  hope  that  a  visitor  might  call.  He  was  glad 
he  had  not  closed  his  door. 

A  young  man  passed  within  his  range  of  vision; 
but  before  he  passed  he  faltered  almost  imper- 
ceptibly, and  then  he  went  on.  And  then  he  re- 
turned and  stood  looking  apologetically  and 
rather  appealingly  into  the  cheerful  room. 

75 


Whispers 

It  was  Cape,  the  young  man  of  the  dining  room, 
the  stranger  of  the  trembling  hands. 

Estabrook  did  not  stir  for  an  instant;  and  then 
he  brought  his  eyes  to  rest  tranquilly  on  the  face 
of  the  man  outside  his  door.  He  did  not  speak; 
but  his  whole  being  expressed,  subtly,  an  invita- 
tion. 

"I  saw  your  light,"  faltered  Cape.  "I  just 
stopped  a  minute  .  .  .  I've  not  been  able  to  sleep. 
A  bad  toothache " 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  Estabrook  succeeded 
in  putting  a  pleasantly  casual  note  into  his  voice. 
A  smile  was  taking  form  on  his  lips. 

"If  you  don't  mind  .  .  ."  The  youth  crossed 
the  threshold  and  hesitated  before  he  moved 
toward  the  unoccupied  chair  which  Estabrook  had 
indicated  by  a  wave  of  his  hand.  Then,  obviously 
ill  at  ease  and  with  nothing  to  say,  he  sat  down. 

"I'm  glad  you  stopped,"  said  Estabrook.  "I 
think  I  know  how  you  feel — unsettled,  I  mean, 
and  restless.  I've  often  felt  that  way  myself.  I 
think  Madam  Joan  told  me  you're  a  stranger  in 
town — just  as  I  am." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other,  "I've  been  here  only 
a  month.  I'm  leaving  to-morrow."  He  lapsed 
into  an  abstracted  mood  and  sat  gazing  at  the 
floor.  Once  he  seemed  to  try  to  arouse  himself, 
to  say  something;  but  after  swallowing  with  diffi- 
culty and  casting  a  restless,  haunted  glance  at 

76 


Cape  Comes  In 

Estabrook,  he  gave  up  the  attempt.  He  seemed 
on  the  point  of  rising  and  going  away. 

But  Estabrook  had  no  intention  of  parting  com- 
pany with  him  so  soon.  He  began  to  speak  in  a 
slowly  reassuring  manner.  "Well,  it's  different 
with  me,"  he  said.  "I've  just  about  decided  to 
stay  awhile — though  I  arrived  only  a  few  hours 
ago.  I'm  thinking  of  going  to  work.  After  all, 
one  town  is  pretty  much  like  another.  It  depends 
mostly  on  yourself,  you  know."  He  produced  a 
pack  of  cigarettes  and  lighted  one  with  a  lightly 
luxurious  air.  He  passed  the  package  to  Cape. 
"Smoke?"  he  asked;  and  he  perceived  that  the 
other  man's  fingers  fumbled  as  they  drew  a  ciga- 
rette from  the  pack. 

"I  know  it  depends  upon  yourself,"  agreed 
Cape,  "but  that  means  you  must  know  how  to  do 
something.  You've  got  to  be  able  to  fit  into  a  place 
somewhere."  He  spoke  falteringly,  yet  with  a 
faintly  dawning  interest. 

"Still,  there's  another  way,"  declared  Esta- 
brook. "That's  to  make  a  place  to  suit  yourself. 
After  all,  you'll  never  get  very  far  by  just  fitting 
into  places  made  by  others."  He  gazed  at  the 
smoke  curling  from  his  cigarette  and  a  whimsical 
smile  lighted  his  face.  "Do  you  know,"  he  re- 
sumed, "one  of  my  favorite  dreams,  when  I'm  in 
an  idle  mood,  has  to  do  with  an  entirely  new  kind 
of  profession  I'd  like  to  invent — and  I  believe 
there'd  be  a  fortune  in  it." 

32 


Whispers 

The  other's  interest  was  betrayed  by  a  slight 
deepening  of  the  color  in  his  face,  by  a  faint  beam 
in  his  eyes. 

"What  should  you  think,"  resumed  Estabrook, 
"of  a  shingle — like  a  doctor's  or  a  lawyer's — bear- 
ing the  words :  'Public  Adviser'  ?" 

"Why— what  would  it  mean?" 

"The  meaning  would  be  simple.  You  know  there 
are  medical  advisers  and  legal  advisers  and  spirit- 
ual advisers.  Those  fields  are  pretty  full,  and  be- 
sides, they  leave  another  field  unoccupied.  But 
you  know  everybody  has  occasional  problems 
which  are  not  legal  or  spiritual  or  physiological. 
You  take  the  average  man  or  woman — though 
perhaps  you're  not  interested?" 

"Yes— yes,  I  am." 

"Very  well.  The  average  run  of  men  or  women 
may  have  good  judgment  most  of  the  time  about 
other  people's  affairs.  But  when  they've  got  a 
problem  of  their  own  to  solve  they  experience  a 
strange  mistrust  of  themselves.  They  have  an 
idea  that  for  the  time  being  they're  perhaps  not 
seeing  straight.  They  want  to  ask  somebody's 
advice.  It  seems  natural.  Everything  -begins  to 
seem  obscure  to  them.  You  know  what  I  mean? 
They  lose  the  sense  of  relative  values.  They  seem 
to  get  off  their  own  base  entirely.  Well,  then. 
What  they  need  in  such  a  situation  is  some  un- 
ruffled person — some  disinterested  person,  let  us 
say — to  see  things  for  them — to  point  out  the 

78 


Cape  Comes  In 

simplest  path  for  them  to  take.  I'm  not  sure  I'm 
making  it  plain,  but  haven't  you  been  in  a  predica- 
ment before  now  when  your  faculties  seemed  to 
desert  you  and  you  felt  all  at  sea?" 

"It's  perfectly  plain,"  said  Cape.  He  seemed 
afraid  to  lift  his  eyes  for  the  moment  lest  they  be- 
tray how  deeply  interested  he  was  in  the  other 
man's  suggestion. 

"And  so  I  would  create  the  office  of  Public 
Adviser.  Think  how  interesting  it  would  be — 
and  how  helpful,  too.  Suppose  we  imagine  a  case. 
For  the  sake  of  illustration  we  will  suppose  that 
I  am  a  Public  Adviser.  An  old  lady  knocks  at 
my  door.  She  hopes  that  perhaps  I  may  be  able 
to  help  her.  She  tells  me  her  story  the  best  she 
knows  how — though  you  understand  I  must  read 
between  the  lines  a  good  bit.  It  seems  that  her 
husband  is  dead  and  her  children  are  all  married. 
She  is  living  alone.  Her  married  daughter — Abi- 
gail, the  younger  one — wants  her  to  give  up  her 
home  and  come  to  live  with  her.  She  doesn't 
know  what  to  do.  The  daughter  draws  very  allur- 
ing pictures.  The  mother  shall  have  the  best  of 
everything  if  she  will  only  give  up  her  home.  She 
is  getting  old  and  she  ought  not  to  live  alone  any 
longer.  That's  the  way  Abigail  puts  it.  Now 
what's  the  other  side?  I  obtain  this  by  asking 
a  few  questions,  and  just  by  listening  and  encour- 
aging the  old  lady  to  talk.  It  seems  the  married 
daughter — I'm  still  speaking  of  Abigail,  under- 

79 


Whispers 

stand — has  a  child  who's  pretty  badly  spoiled.  A 
little  girl  who  slams  doors  and  cries  when  she  can't 
have  her  own  way,  and  generally  refuses  to  mind. 
And  the  husband — well,  there's  nothing  really 
wrong  with  Arthur,  though  he  is  quite  extrava- 
gant and  doesn't  provide  Abigail  with  sufficient 
funds  to  run  the  house  just  as  it  should  be  run. 
Not  really  vicious,  but  a  bit  improvident.  On 
the  whole  the  home  atmosphere  is  not  quite  har- 
monious. The  old  lady  is  a  little  afraid  (she 
only  whispers  this)  that  perhaps  Abigail  and  Ar- 
thur expect  to  ask  her  for  a  little  money  now  and 
then,  if  she  goes  to  live  with  them.  The  problem 
is:  What  shall  the  old  lady  do?" 

Cape  was  staring  at  the  newspaper  man  almost 
incredulously.  It  had  seemed  to  him  a  species  of 
wizardry,  the  verisimilitude  of  it  all  despite  the 
readiness  of  invention.  He  asked,  "What  did  she 
do?" 

Estabrook  smiled  delightedly.  "You  mean  to 
ask,  What  does  she  do?  Well,  if  she  accepts  my 
advice  she  remains  right  where  she  is.  You  must 
look  down  into  the  depths  of  human  nature. 
Here's  the  situation:  She's  lived  in  her  own  home 
forty — fifty — years.  She's  had  all  her  pleasures 
and  griefs  there.  She's  part  of  it  and  it's  part  of 
her.  Suppose  she  gives  it  up.  She  burns  her 
bridges  behind  her.  She  gives  the  'sofy' — you 
must  pardon  her  for  calling  it  the  'sofy' — away  to 
the  faithful  old  soul  who's  been  coming  in  all 

80 


Cape  Comes  In 

these  years  to  help  with  the  cleaning.  She  dis- 
tributes the  chairs  among  the  neighbors,  even  giv- 
ing one  to  Mrs.  Carpenter,  who  was  never  known 
to  give  so  much  as  a  pleasant  look  to  anybody.  .  .  . 
But  there,  she  goes  to  live  with  daughter  Abigail. 
There's  a  joyous  hubbub  at  first.  Grandmother 
has  come  to  live  at  our  house!  But  ah,  what  is 
this  we  see  in  a  few  days?  Little  Clarice  mustn't 
slam  the  door  because  it  makes  Grandma  jump. 
So — little  Clarice  becomes  enemy  No.  I.  She  de- 
vises  a  phrase,  to  wit,  Old  Thing.  A  day  or  so 
later  Grandmother  ventures  to  expostulate  with 
Arthur  because  he  has  invested  in  six  silk  shirts, 
forgetting  that  this  was  the  week  the  landlord 
came.  Arthur  restricts  himself  to  a  single  word: 
Indeed! — but  he  becomes  enemy  No.  2.  And  as 
for  Abigail — well,  Abigail  has  found  that  if  she 
remains  downtown  shopping  a  little  late,  Grand- 
mother will  have  dinner  ready.  It's  great !  And 
the  same  thing  happens — dinner  on  the  table — if 
she  is  tempted  to  drop  in  for  the  matinee.  And 
Grandmother?  You  have  guessed  it.  Grand- 
mother gets  to  dreaming  about  the  old  nook  in  the 
baywindow,  where  the  geranium  was,  and  the 
tidies;  and  she  remembers  the  old  long  silences 
which  used  to  seem  like  a  cross,  and  she  wishes 
— oh!  how  she  wishes! — that  she  might  know 
them  again.  She  becomes  depressed.  She  isn't  ill 
— oh,  no ;  she  just  isn't  feeling  well.  And  then  she 
catches  cold,  and  somehow  she  hasn't  the  power  to 

81 


Whispers 

resist  she  used  to  have;  and — well,  let's  not  put 
the  old  lady — really  a  good  old  lady,  you  know — 
under  the  daisies.  But  you  see  what  I'm  getting 
at." 

Cape  was  smiling  a  little  dreamily.  "You're  a 
queer  chap !"  he  ventured. 

Estabrook  changed  his  position.  "But  now 
let's  get  back  to  the  Public  Adviser — to  me,  you 
know.  When  Grandmother  comes  to  me  before 
she  has  taken  the  fatal  step  I  draw  the  picture  for 
her  somewhat  as  I've  drawn  it  for  you.  Result: 
When  daughter  Abigail  comes  to  hear  her  decision 
the  old  lady  declares  that  it's  lovely  of  Abigail 
and  Arthur  to  want  her,  and  that  she  should  love 
to  be  close  to  little  Clarice  all  the  time,  but  that 
— well,  she  just  couldn't  bring  herself  to  make  the 
change.  And  now  what  picture  does  the  future 
show?  Once  or  twice  a  year  mother  has  daugh- 
ter and  son-in-law  home  for  a  big  dinner.  She 
bakes  a  little  cake  for  Clarice,  and  Clarice  thinks 
she  is  a  brick.  Daughter  and  Arthur  realize  that 
the  old  lady  will  have  a  tidy  sum  to  leave  some 
day,  and  besides,  they  are  truly  fond  of  her,  so 
long  as  they  don't  see  too  much  of  her.  And  so 
they  try  to  be  more  thoughtful  of  her  happiness 
than  Sister  Elinor — that's  the  elder  sister.  All 
very  fine  for  mother.  And  she  doesn't  become 
depressed,  but  lives  to  a  ripe  old  age.  Rather 
sketchily  done,  but  it  will  serve.  What  do  you 
think  of  it?" 

82 


Cape  Comes  In 

Cape  only  shook  his  head  incredulously. 

"You  just  don't  see  the  possibilities,"  declared 
Estabrook.  "The  entire  human  race  imagines  it- 
self in  trouble  half  the  time.  There  would  be  a 
thousand  difficulties  for  a  Public  Adviser  to 
straighten  out — just  by  keeping  his  head  when 
others  had  lost  theirs.  Just  by  exercising  plain 
common  sense.  If  a  Public  Adviser  became  more 
celebrated  than  the  other  Public  Advisers  in  his 
town  he'd  have  his  hands  filled  with  work  all  the 
time.  Boys  would  come  to  him  to  learn  whether 
they  ought  to  learn  to  play  the  violin  or  take  up 
brick-laying.  How  easy  to  supply  the  answer  in 
that  case!  Girls  would  want  to  know  whether 
nature  meant  them  to  be  artists  or  wives.  Could 
any  right-minded  individual  fail  to  know  precisely 
what  to  say?  Men  would  come  to  know  whether 
they  should  buy  town-site  lots  in  Florida.  Would 
you  know  how  to  answer  them?  You  know  you 
would!  And  finally" — here  he  paused  impres- 
sively— "men  and  women  would  seek  the  Public 
Adviser  to  confide  in  him  their  secret  deeds,  per- 
haps their  evil  deeds.  There  his  great  opportuni- 
ties would  lie!  There  would  be  his  chance  for 
something  like  mind-reading." 

The  other  took  him  up  sharply,  almost  resent- 
fully: "I  don't  believe  in  mind-reading,"  he  de- 
clared. 

"Oh,  then  you've  never  studied  the  subject !"  ex- 
claimed Estabrook  with  assurance.  "I  don't  mean 

83 


Whispers 

that  you  can  read  everything  that's  in  a  mind, 
word  for  word.  But  you  can  read  enough  to  give 
you  a  clue.  Let  me  prove  it  to  you.  You  sat 
at  the  table  with  me  at  supper  to-night.  And  you 
were  deeply  interested  in  a  group  of  men  who  had 
been  speaking  about — what  was  it  they  men- 
tioned? Oh,  yes!  They  were  saying  something 
about  the  death  of  old  Pheneas  Drumm.  Of 
course  I  couldn't  say  just  what  was  in  your  mind. 
But  I  could  tell  that  you  were  interested  deeply 
in  what  they  said." 

"That  would  be  reading  the  features,"  said 
Cape.  "My  face  would  have  told  you  I  was  in- 
terested in  what  they  said.  I  was  simply  wonder- 
ing how  they  could  get  hold  of  information  of 
that  sort  so  soon." 

"But  reading  the  features  and  reading  the  mind 
are  pretty  much  the  same  thing,"  declared  Esta- 
brook  evenly.  "Putting  aside  our  argument  for  a 
moment,  and  answering  your  question — I  suppose 
those  chaps  might  have  known  members  of  the 
man  Drumm's  family.  Or  why  shouldn't  they 
have  learned  of  his  death  from  the  police?" 

"Oh — perhaps  they  did!"  murmured  Cape. 

But  Estabrook,  leaning  languidly  forward  to 
deposit  the  ashes  from  his  cigarette  on  a  tray,  did 
not  resume  his  upright  posture  for  an  instant. 
For  the  fraction  of  a  second  a  keen  light  burned 
in  his  eyes.  His  'visitor  knew  at  what  hour  old 
Drumm  had  met  his  death. 

84 


Chapter  XI 
Estabrook  Wonders 

A  DISTANT  time-piece — the  clock  on  the 
municipal  building — struck  the  hour  of 
two,  and  Cape  arose  almost  guiltily.  "I'm  keep- 
ing you  up,"  he  said.  "I'm  afraid  I'd  forgotten 
myself." 

"You  needn't  apologize,"  said  Estabrook  cor- 
dially. "I'm  used  to  late  hours.  After  all,  it's  a 
relative  term — late  hours.  I  shall  not  be  going  to 
work  until  after  noon,  and  I'm  used  to  sitting 
around  at  this  hour,  talking — when  I  can  find  a 
congenial  victim." 

Cape  had  moved  toward  the  door;  but  it  was 
evident  that  he  still  wished  to  say  something,  and 
after  sorting  over  the  words  at  his  command,  or 
the  forms  of  speech,  he  ventured  upon  this : 

"Just  the  same,  you  haven't  touched  upon  the 
one  difficult  question — getting  back  to  your  Pub- 
lic Adviser  idea.  There's  one  flaw  in  your  plan, 
and  that's  a  fatal  one." 

"I  wonder  what?"  asked  Estabrook. 

"How  would  people  know  it  would  be  safe  to 
confide  in  you?  What  would  prevent  your  be- 

85 


Whispers 

traying  them — or  at  least,  why  shouldn't  they  fear 
you  might?  You  spoke  of — of  evil  deeds.  You'd 
be  a  stranger  to  most  people.  You  don't  suppose 
they'd  place  themselves  in  your  hands,  do  you?" 

The  reply  came  briskly,  cheerfully:  "Oh — 
didn't  I  explain  that?  Why,  you  see,  that  would 
be  my  stock  in  trade.  My  reliability,  I  mean.  If 
people  didn't  trust  me  I'd  be  a  failure,  of  course. 
I'd  have  to  establish  a  reputation  for  discretion. 
I'd  get  the  public  to  believing  that  they  would  be 
as  safe  in  my  office  as  they'd  be  in  the  confessional. 
They  would  be.  I'd  never  breathe  a  word  of 
what  I  was  told.  I'd  not  have  to,  you  know. 
The  authorities  couldn't  prove  that  I  knew  any- 
thing: I  mean,  if  I  became  adviser  in  a  really  seri- 
ous case.  My  business  would  be  secret,  absolutely 
confidential.  I  should  have  made  that  plain  to 
you  in  the  beginning.  I  supposed  you'd  take  that 
for  granted." 

And  still  Cape  lingered.  His  gaze  rested  on 
the  floor,  his  hand  sought  the  door-casing.  Again 
he  seemed  to  be  sorting  over  the  words  at  his  com- 
mand— but  this  time  he  was  delving  deeper  and 
his  search  involved  a  struggle.  His  color  came 
and  went.  And  at  last  he  inquired  in  a  shame- 
faced manner — 

"And  do  you  really  believe  you  could  give  a 
fellow  good  advice — that  you  could  actually  point 
out  the  best  thing  for  him  to  do — if  he — if  he'd 
gotten  his  affairs  in  a — a  hopeless  tangle?"  He 

86 


Estabrook  Wonders 

lifted  his  eyes  as  if  they  were  great  weights  and 
by  a  supreme  effort  held  them  upon  Estabrook's. 

The  newspaper  man  leaned  forward,  intensely, 
serious  at  last.  "I'm  sure  I  could!"  he  declared. 

He  had  meant  to  speak  on  a  lower,  a  more  in- 
tense, key;  but  the  result  was  only  a  hoarser  whis- 
per— a  whisper  which  transformed  the  moment 
into  an  almost  dramatic  one.  For  an  instant  his 
caller  seemed  almost  hypnotized;  and  then  with 
an  effort  he  regained  self-control.  "Well,  good- 
night," he  said.  He  was  pondering  darkly  as 
he  turned  away. 

Estabrook  went  to  the  door  to  bid  him  good- 
night. "And — you'll  excuse  me,  won't  you? — but 
don't  permit  yourself  to  believe  you're  beaten. 
Never  do  that!  Say  to  yourself,  every  time  you 
go  to  bed,  'To-morrow  will  be  a  new  day.  To- 
morrow my  life  shall  begin  at  a  new  beginning.' 
And  drop  in  to  see  me  again — do !  Perhaps  I've 
talked  a  lot  of  nonsense  to-night,  but  this  isn't 
nonsense — it's  true:  If  I  can  help  you  in  any  way 
I'm  here  to  do  it.  A  fellow  always  can  help  a 
little — any  fellow,  I  mean — if  he  wants  to.  Good- 
night." 

He  stepped  back  into  his  room  and  closed  the 
door  at  last.  There  was  slight  likelihood  of  his 
seeing  anyone  else  that  night.  It  was  getting  late, 
even  from  the  standpoint  of  Madam  Joan's  pa- 
trons. The  elevator  had  moved  but  infrequently 
during  the  past  half-hour  or  so.  The  murmur  of 

8? 


Whispers 

voices  throughout  the  house  had  subsided  to  a 
faint  hum,  and  now  it  had  died  away  entirely. 

He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  for  a  mo- 
ment, his  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets,  his 
eyes  gazing  into  vacancy.  He  was  wondering 
what  actual  headway  he  had  made  with  Cape — 
and  he  was  wrestling  also  with  a  feeling  which  was 
beginning  to  possess  him  more  and  more  strongly, 
yet  which  he  had  in  no  wise  invited.  It  was  the 
feeling  that  Cape  was  guiltless  of  the  death  of  old 
Drumm.  No  matter  how  often  he  assured  him- 
self that  the  brand  of  Cain  is  infinite  in  its  variety, 
that  there  are  no  definite  rules  by  which  it  may  be 
identified,  he  came  back  again  and  again  to  the 
feeling  that  Cape  could  not  have  done  the  deed. 
There  was  something  about  the  youth — a  kind  of 
delicacy  of  manner,  a  shyness,  an  apologetic  ap- 
peal for  friendship  in  his  glance — which  placed 
him  outside  the  realm  of  suspicion.  It  was  only 
logic  which  testified  against  him.  His  manner  and 
appearance,  his  voice — everything — proclaimed 
him  innocent. 

Estabrook's  first  aim  had  been  to  impress  the 
youth  favorably — to  win  his  liking  if  he  could. 
His  second  aim  had  been  to  suggest  to  him  that 
he,  Estabrook,  would  be  an  ideal  person  in  whom 
to  confide.  And  now  he  concluded  that  he  had 
made  but  poor  use  of  the  hour  which  had  been 
given  him.  For  Cape — and  here  was  the  point 
which  impressed  him  most  deeply — Cape  was 

88 


Estabrook  Wonders 

clearly  not  the  sort  of  person  one  might  take  pos- 
session of  by  the  affability  and  companionship  of 
an  hour.  There  were  hidden  depths  in  his  nature. 
More  plainly  speaking,  he  possessed  character. 
He  might  yield,  inch  by  inch,  to  the  demands  of 
a  friendly  advance,  but  he  would  not  lay  bare  his 
heart  and  soul  at  any  and  every  invitation. 

As  he  took  his  watch  out  and  wound  it  he  was 
still  pondering.  He  had  proposed  to  Campbell 
that  he  be  permitted  to  turn  in  the  complete  story 
of  the  Drumm  slaying  within  forty-eight  hours. 
At  the  moment  it  had  seemed  to  him  a  simple 
enough  undertaking.  Yet  now  he  felt  an  un- 
wonted dissatisfaction  with  himself,  because  of  his 
rashness,  his  seeming  boastfulness.  He  wished 
earnestly  enough  to  go  to  work  on  the  Fidette. 
He  had  sounded  himself  within  the  past  hour, 
and  he  knew  that  he  was  in  the  right  mood  and 
the  right  place  for  the  work  which  he  liked  above 
all  other  work  to  do.  Yet  there  were  obscure 
difficulties  in  his  way. 

Those  difficulties  were  perhaps  less  obscure  a 
few  minutes  later,  when  he  lay  in  his  bed  in  the 
dark.  Almost  automatically  a  phrase  was  running 
through  his  mind  with  the  monotony  of  a  coach's 
wheels  along  a  track: 

"A  boy  like  that  capable  of  murder?  A  boy 
like  that  capable  of  murder?"  .  .  . 


89 


Chapter  XII 
In  the  Place  of  Masks 

HE  had  scarcely  closed  his  eyes — at  least  that 
was  his  impression — when  he  was  awak- 
ened by  the  cries  of  newsboys  down  in  the  streets. 
A  great  flood  of  sunlight  filled  his  room.  He 
looked  at  his  watch,  which  he  had  placed  under 
his  pillow.  It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock. 

He  sprang  from  his  bed  with  the  eagerness  of 
a  little  boy — life  seemed  to  him  so  wonderful  a 
thing,  the  world  so  full  of  delightful  and  unex- 
plored places.  He  had  said  to  Cape  last  night, 
"Say  to  yourself,  every  time  you  go  to  bed,  'To- 
morrow will  be  a  new  day.  To-morrow  my  life 
shall  begin  at  a  new  beginning.' '  He  had  not 
spoken  the  words  idly.  They  were  a  part  of  his 
own  creed.  And  now  he  made  haste  to  be  ready 
for  whatever  the  new  day  might  bring  him. 

Locating  the  bathroom  and  solving  the  minor 
problems  of  its  equipment;  completing  his  toilet 
with  no  aids  save  that  of  a  toothbrush  (and  re- 
minding himself  that  he  must  provide  a  brush  and 
comb  and  other  things  during  the  day) — these 
were  experiences  through  which  he  had  passed 

90 


In  the  Place  of  Masks 

many  a  time  before;  yet  they  retained  a  certain 
novelty  and  he  enjoyed  them.  He  whistled  al- 
most unremittingly  as  he  moved  to  and  fro,  stop- 
ping only  once  to  wonder  if  there  might  be  other 
guests  in  the  adjacent  rooms  who  were  yet  asleep. 

He  was  still  whistling  when  he  emerged  from 
his  room  and  made  his  way  down  two  flights  of 
stairs  to  the  public  dining  room.  He  encountered 
no  one,  but  the  voids  through  which  he  passed 
were  not  dreary  to  him.  An  enchanted  wood 
would  scarcely  have  delighted  him  more.  The 
halls  and  stairways  seemed  to  him  rather  delight- 
fully haunted. 

Morning  nearly  always  brought  to  him  bound- 
less energy  and  perfect  definiteness  of  purpose. 
This  morning  was  no  exception  to  the  rule.  He 
was  going  to  work  for  the  Vidette  in  two  or  three 
hours,  he  assured  himself.  He  was  going  to  write 
the  full  story  of  the  Drumm  murder,  perhaps  the 
next  day.  And  now  he  had  no  divided  point  of 
view,  no  conflicting  sympathies.  It  occurred  to 
him  that  he  had  gone  to  bed  last  night  with  a 
weakening  sense  of  pity  for  young  Cape — a  mud- 
dlingly  philosophic  tendency  to  question,  or  even 
to  excuse. 

Now  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  as  a  reporter 
he  was  concerned  with  nothing  whatever  but  pri- 
mary facts.  He  must  find  out  how  a  certain  thing 
happened.  He  must  turn  in  his  facts  with  a  com- 
pletely impersonal  and  detached  attitude  toward 

91 


Whispers 

them.  It  was  for  those  in  authority  over  him  to 
decide  whether  all  the  facts,  or  only  a  part  of 
them,  or  none  at  all,  should  be  printed.  And  it 
was  for  the  courts  to  decide  all  questions  touching 
judgment  and  punishment.  As  for  the  man  Cape, 
if  it  proved  that  he  was  in  fact  the  slayer  of 
Pheneas  Drumm,  he  was  neither  his  betrayer  nor 
his  judge.  He  was  simply  a  reporter.  If  it 
chanced  that  he  had  taken  a  liking  to  the  man 
personally,  he  might  seek  to  aid  him  in  any  way 
within  his  power — but  only  after  he  had  written 
the  whole  truth  about  him,  so  far  as  he  could  as- 
certain the  whole  truth,  and  turned  it  in  to  his 
city  editor. 

He  found  the  dining  room  empty  save  for  one 
waitress  who  yawned  when  he  asked  for  eggs  and 
bacon.  Then  he  seized  upon  copies  of  the  Fidette 
and  the  News  which  he  found  on  different  tables, 
and  sat  down,  his  whole  being  eagerly  alert. 

The  Drumm  murder  story  had  a  first-page  posi- 
tion in  both  papers.  He  read  the  Fidette's  story 
first.  It  set  forth  the  known  facts,  and  to  these 
there  was  added  something  more  than  a  hint 
touching  the  eccentricities  of  the  victim:  his  re- 
puted wealth,  the  isolation  of  his  life.  A  police 
officer  had  found  him  in  his  shop,  dead,  at  about 
1 1  o'clock.  It  was  evident  that  he  had  been  slain, 
perhaps  an  hour  earlier.  So  far  as  the  police 
could  determine  he  had  not  been  robbed.  A  gold 
watch  of  foreign  workmanship,  probably  cher- 

92 


In  the  Place  of  Masks 

ished  as  a  souvenir  as  well  as  a  time-piece,  had 
not  been  taken,  and  a  wallet  containing  a  consider- 
able amount  of  money  was  found  in  the  inside 
pocket  of  the  woolen  shop-jacket  he  wore.  The 
police  had  instituted  a  search,  the  newspaper  said, 
for  relatives  of  the  dead  man,  though  so  far  as 
was  known  he  had  never  referred  to  any  relative 
and  had  never  been  visited  by  any. 

That  was  all. 

The  account  published  in  the  News  was  entirely 
different  in  manner,  though  not  different  essen- 
tially in  matter.  It  began  with  an  attack  on  the 
police  department — by  inference  at  least — and 
pointed  out  the  indications  of  another  crime  wave. 
It  was  a  story  in  somewhat  boisterous  terms,  sen- 
sational and  silly,  with  a  certain  editorial  quality 
mingling  with  the  statement  of  facts.  It  hinted 
that  no  one  need  expect  the  police  department  to 
solve  this  latest  mystery  in  the  criminal  annals  of 
the  town,  since  too  many  similar  crimes  had  been 
committed  of  late,  and  in  not  a  single  instance 
had  the  perpetrators  been  brought  to  justice.  It 
was  suggested,  however,  that  the  department 
justify  its  existence  by  placing  its  hands  on  the 
murderer.  And  finally  it  hinted  that  a  shake-up 
in  the  force  might  restore  public  confidence,  in  a 
measure,  in  the  efficacy  of  the  law. 

He  was  glad  to  put  aside  the  papers  when  the 
waitress  came  in  with  his  breakfast.  She  placed 
his  bacon  and  eggs  and  coffee  before  him  with  au- 

93 


Whispers 

tomatic  movements  and  then  went  away  patting 
her  lips. 

He  had  finished  his  breakfast  and  was  turning 
away  from  the  cashier's  desk  when  Cape  entered 
the  dining  room:  Cape  in  a  mood  as  despondent 
and  furtive  and  aloof  as  at  any  moment  during  the 
night  before. 

Estabrook  confronted  him  with  a  certain  energy 
and  cheerfulness.  "We  meet  again!"  he  ex- 
claimed with  a  smile.  And  then,  as  by  an  after- 
thought, he  added,  "If  you're  anywhere  about  this 
afternoon  I  may  find  time  to  look  you  up;  and  at 
any  rate  suppose  we  have  dinner  together  this 
evening — say  between  six  and  seven.  You  can  be 
here,  can't  you?"  And  he  went  away  without 
giving  Cape  time  to  make  any  excuses. 

He  thought  of  his  appointment  with  Campbell 
of  the  Vidette;  but  it  was  much  too  early  to  hope 
to  find  him  at  his  desk  now.  Campbell  wouldn't 
be  down  before  twelve  o'clock  or  so,  and  for  per- 
haps an  hour  thereafter  he  would  be  busy  with  his 
assignment  book  and  in  getting  his  reporters  away 
for  their  afternoon  work.  One  o'clock  would  be 
a  suitable  hour  at  which  to  call.  \ 

In  a  moment  he  was  on  the  street,  strolling  in 
what  seemed  an  aimless  manner — though  it  was 
only  seemingly  so.  Already  he  was  getting  the 
feel  of  the  city,  as  he  would  have  said:  he  was 
acquiring  a  certain  proprietorship  in  the  streets, 
getting  his  bearings,  finding  his  way  about.  He 

94 


In  the  Place  of  Masks 

was  inviting  a  thousand  impressions,  making  him- 
self at  home.  The  sunlight  of  the  early  May  fore- 
noon was  glorious,  even  in  a  city  which  used  soft 
coal  almost  exclusively  in  making  its  wheels  re- 
volve. He  glanced  into  the  complex  tangle  of 
faces  which  passed  him  with  the  almost  expectant 
expression  of  one  who  says,  "These  are  my 
fellows." 

He  seemed  to  move  aimlessly;  yet  when  he 
glanced  up  to  read  the  name  of  the  thoroughfare 
presently,  and  read  the  enameled  letters,  Fourth 
street,  he  realized  that  he  had  been  subconsciously 
seeking  this  street  since  the  moment  he  had 
emerged  from  Madam  Joan's.  He  stood  for  an 
instant  taking  in  the  street.  It  was  very  far  from 
being  deserted  now.  An  endless  line  of  stake- 
wagons  rumbled  in  either  direction.  There  was 
a  brisk  procession  of  pedestrians  on  the  sidewalk. 
There  was  also  that  indefinable  city  odor  which 
was  to  him  as  the  scent  of  heather  is  to  a  High- 
lander :  a  subtle  olfactory  murmur  of  great  indus- 
tries far  and  near. 

He  could  scarcely  have  said  that  he  was  seek- 
ing the  shop  of  the  late  Pheneas  Drumm;  yet 
when  he  stood  presently  before  a  locked  door, 
with  a  man  in  the  uniform  of  the  city  police  dis- 
creetly keeping  watch  over  it  nearby,  he  knew  that 
he  had  arrived  at  a  destination  which  he  had  more 
or  less  definitely  sought. 

He  lighted  a  cigarette  and  appraised  the  police 

95 


Whispers 

officer  through  the  first  puffs  of  smoke.  It  was 
wholly  by  chance,  he  decided,  that  the  man  in  uni- 
form seemed  to  be  a  creature  of  more  than  a  lit- 
tle character  and  intelligence.  Estabrook  had 
had  many  sad  experiences  with  police  officers, 
whose  ranks  seemed  to  him  to  number,  every- 
where, far  too  large  a  proportion  of  low-minded 
hangers-on — men  without  a  trace  of  civic  decency 
or  morality  or  pride,  brutish  fellows  with  only 
cunning  enough  to  serve  their  superiors,  or  to  de- 
ceive them. 

But  this  man  seemed  to  be  an  exception — and 
after  all,  there  were  always  a  good  many  excep- 
tions— and  Estabrook  approached  him  casually, 
yet  not  without  candor  in  his  bearing.  He  noted 
that  the  officer  was  bestowing  cynically  indifferent 
glances  upon  an  occasional  morbid  individual  who 
lingered  in  passing  before  Drumm's  shop  and 
looked  into  the  place  where  Death  had  walked 
only  a  little  while  before. 

"Officer,"  he  asked,  "is  there  anything  in  the 
theory  that  a  murderer  can't  help  coming  back, 
sooner  or  later,  to  view  the  scene  of  his  crime?" 
He  stood  rather  close  to  the  man  in  uniform,  so 
that  his  voice  might  be  heard. 

The  officer  had  inclined  his  ear.  The  expres- 
sion on  his  face  was  good-natured.  Now  he 
laughed  pleasantly.  "It  wouldn't  help  much  if 
he  did,"  he  declared,  "because  he'd  be  only  one  of 
a  crowd  as  likely  as  not." 

96 


In  the  Place  of  Masks 

i 

Estabrook  was  further  reassured  by  the  man's 
voice.  "I'd  like  to  look  the  shop  over,  if  I 
might,"  he  said.  "I'm  a  reporter.  I  expect  to 
follow  up  the  Drumm  story  for  the  Fidette." 

The  officer  gave  him  a  second  glance;  and  then 
— "We'd  better  go  around  by  the  back  way,"  he 
said.  "The  whole  street  would  soon  be  pouring 
into  the  shop  if  we  went  in  the  front  way." 

He  searched  in  his  pocket  for  a  key,  and  Esta- 
brook caught  step  with  him.  They  went  around 
into  the  alley  and  a  moment  later  the  officer  was 
unlocking  a  low  door.  He  pushed  the  door  open 
and  indicated  by  a  gesture  that  the  newspaper 
man  was  to  precede  him  into  the  shop.  i 

Before  he  realized  it  Estabrook  was  standing 
in  the  room  where  the  murder  had  occurred:  was 
standing  in  close  proximity  to  cases  filled  with 
mocking  masks  and  festive  costumes.  Through 
the  grimy  front  windows  the  traffic  of  the  street 
could  be  seen  moving  almost  noiselessly,  with  a 
kind  of  phantom-like  lifelessness. 

He  turned  to  the  officer,  who  was  regarding 
him  with  the  curious  and  respectful  air  of  a  man 
who  is  intelligent  enough  to  read  a  newspaper, 
but  who  is  not  intelligent  enough  to  know  how 
little  authority  the  printed  words  in  a  newspaper 
may  sometimes  carry.  And  Estabrook  realized 
that  the  room  meant  to  this  guardian  of  the  peace 
only  a  place  containing  a  few  pieces  of  furniture 
and  a  somewhat  absurd  stock,  though  to  himself 

97 


Whispers 

it  was  a  room  where  invisible  spirits  exerted  an 
influence — where  Pheneas  Drumm,  though  dead, 
still  spoke. 

He  stood  for  an  instant,  oppressed  by  the 
weight  of  certain  solemn  reflections;  and  then  he 
was  aroused  by  the  officer,  who  had  opened  the 
door  leading  up  into  the  storerooms. 

"He  came  down  this  way,"  said  the  officer. 

Estabrook  turned  to  inspect  the  stairway.  He 
stooped  for  evidences  of  footprints.  They  were 
there,  though  only  faintly  discernible,  and  there 
were  many  of  them.  No  doubt  a  score  of  per- 
sons had  ascended  and  descended  the  stairs  since 
the  murderer  had  come  and  gone.  He  turned  to 
the  officer.  "Were  the  impressions  taken?"  he 
asked. 

"Very  likely.  I  only  went  on  duty  this  morn- 
ing." 

The  armored  knight  beside  the  doorway  en- 
gaged Estabrook's  attention.  He  stepped  closer 
for  a  detailed  inspection. 

"A  fool  thing  1"  was  the  officer's  comment. 

"Yes,"  conceded  the  other.  His  back  was 
toward  the  officer  now;  and  he  stooped  lower  to 
see  why  the  knight's  sword  did  not  rest  more 
snugly  in  its  scabbard.  Suddenly  a  beam  of  light 
flitted  across  his  face  and  was  gone.  He  turned 
about  with  an  indifferent  air.  "Yes,  a  fool 
thing,"  he  repeated.  "Sword  and  all.  It's  made 
of  pewter,  I  suppose." 

98 


In  the  Place  of  Masks 

He  left  the  mailed  knight  as  if  the  officer  had 
said  the  last  word  relative  to  the  shining  figure. 
He  paused  for  an  examination  of  the  table  in  the 
center  of  the  room,  under  the  suspended  lamp 
with  the  green  shade.  There  were  two  small 
drawers  beneath  the  worn  wooden  top.  They 
would  have  been  invisible  to  one  who  did  not 
search  for  them — in  a  measure  secret  drawers, 
though  not  really  concealed,  in  the  sense  in  which 
an  officer  or  a  house-breaker  would  have  under- 
stood that  word. 

"They  were  empty,"  said  the  officer,  perceiv- 
ing that  Estabrook  had  located  the  drawers. 
"And  one  of  them  was  open." 

The  newspaper  man  opened  one  of  them.  It 
was  a  foot  in  width  and  perhaps  twice  that  in 
depth.  "What  could  it  have  been  used  for?"  he 
asked. 

"Perhaps  to  keep  change  in — or  it  may  be  rec- 
ords of  some  sort." 

"Or  a  weapon?"  suggested  Estabrook.  He 
peered  more  closely.  A  fine  sifting  of  dark  dust 
covered  the  bottom  of  the  drawer. 

"It  was  the  other  drawer  that  was  found  open," 
said  the  officer. 

Estabrook  opened  the  other  drawer.  The  same 
impalpable  coating  was  to  be  found  on  the  bottom 
of  this  drawer  also;  but  here  there  was  a  dif- 
ference. The  dust  did  not  lie  uniformly.  A  cer- 
tain irregular  area  had  been  protected.  Until  a 

99 


Whispers 

few  days  ago — perhaps  only  a  few  hours  ago — 
an  object  had  been  lying  here  on  the  bottom  of 
the  drawer,  so  that  the  insidiously  falling  veil  of 
the  city's  smoke  could  not  reach  the  wood.  And 
the  outlines  were  unmistakable.  They  were  those 
of  a  short-barreled  revolver. 

Estabrook  closed  the  drawer  slowly.  He 
straightened  up.  "There  was  a  chair  near  the 
table  where  the  old  man  was  found  dead?"  he 
asked. 

"It  was  overturned " 

"And  it  lay  here?"     Estabrook  pointed. 

"Yes.  And  the  body  was  lying  there.  It  lay 
with  the  back  toward  the  table  and  the  overturned 
chair."  The  officer  seemed  to  collect  himself. 
"But  how  did  you  know  there  was  a  chair  near 
the  table?"  he  asked. 

"I  merely  inquired.  And  no  weapon  was 
found  in  the  room?" 

"I  think  not — no,  I'm  sure  of  it." 

Estabrook  pondered.  The  dead  shop-keeper 
had  been  sitting  near  the  drawer  in  which  a 
weapon  lay.  He  had  sprung  from  his  chair — 
alarmed  by  the  sound  of  intrusion,  no  doubt — 
and  he  had  taken  his  weapon  from  the  drawer. 
But  clearly  he  had  not  had  time  to  use  it.  So 
much  seemed  well  within  the  range  of  probabil- 
ity. But  what  had  become  of  the  weapon? 

He  had  no  time  to  consider  further  when  there 
was  an  interruption.  The  door  by  which  he  and 

100 


In  the  Place  of  Masks 

the  officer  had  entered  the  shop — and  which  the' 
officer  had  closed  behind  him — was  opened  with- 
out warning  or  apology  and  a  man  in  civilian  cloth- 
ing entered  the  shop  with  an  air  of  pushing  him-; 
self  forward.  And  in  a  voice  which  seemed,  in 
that  quiet  place,  offensively  strident,  he  asked, 

"Locking  the  stable  door,  now  that  the  steed's 
gone?" 

The  officer's  only  reply  was  a  word  of  explana- 
tion to  Estabrook.  "A  News  man,"  he  said. 

The  man  from  the  News  began  a  rather  pom- 
pous examination  of  the  place.  He  disappeared 
almost  immediately  behind  a  group  of  cabinets, 
and  the  officer  took  advantage  of  his  momentary 
absence  to  make  a  wry  face  at  Estabrook — which 
was  explained  by  a  contemptuous  jerk  of  his  head 
toward  the  other  reporter. 

But  Estabrook's  examination  had  been  com- 
pleted. He  stood  inactive,  waiting  for  the  offi- 
cer, who  in  turn  was  waiting  for  the  News  man. 
He  glanced  casually  at  the  fantastic  articles  about 
him:  the  costumes  of  gay  colors,  the  grotesque 
masks.  But  the  thought  in  his  mind  was — "My 
friend  Cape  either  has  in  his  possession  a  pistol 
which  he  has  acquired  within  the  past  twenty-four 
hours,  or  he  has  thrown  it  away.  And  in  some 
degree  at  least  he  was  acting  in  self-defense  when 
he  provided  the  old  costumer  with  a  new  and  per- 
manent address." 

Still  he  was  waiting  for  the  officer  to  leave  the 
101 


Whispers 

shop  and  lock  the  door  when  he  heard  a  cry  of 
triumph  from  the  invisible  News  man.  He  and 
the  officer  both  moved  around  behind  the  row  of 
cabinets. 

The  News  man  was  standing  before  them  with 
an  air  of  exaggerated  importance.  "They  are  all 
locked,"  he  said,  "but  one — and  that  one  is 
empty."  He  flung  a  door  open  wide. 

"It  is  certainly  empty,"  assented  Estabrook. 

"And  suppose  it  is?"  inquired  the  officer. 

"Nothing — except  that  it  might  afford  a  very 
satisfactory  hiding-place  for  any  man  who  had  de- 
signs on  old  Drumm's  life." 

The  suggestion  seemed  of  slight  interest  to  Es- 
tabrook; and  after  concluding  that  the  man  from 
the  News  might  intend  to  remain  in  the  shop  for 
a  considerable  time,  he  moved  toward  the  door. 
He  turned  long  enough  to  say,  "Much  obliged, 
Officer,"  and  then  he  was  gone. 


102: 


Chapter  XIII 
A  Talk  with  Campbell 

AFTER  he  had  left  the  shop  of  the  late  Phe- 
neas  Drumm  he  spent  the  greater  part  of 
an  hour  in  a  sort  of  curiosity  shop,  which  he  en- 
tered quite  idly,  but  in  which  he  remained  because 
the  proprietor,  with  much  time  on  his  hands,  had 
many  things  to  say  to  him  which  he  was  glad  to 
hear:  gossipy  details  about  leading  personages  of 
the  city.  The  proprietor  talked  skilfully  and 
without  petty  malice;  and  Estabrook  knew  very 
well  that  a  newspaper  man  cannot  know  too  much 
about  the  relative  standing,  the  faults  and  foibles 
and  fortes  of  the  men  and  women  whom,  in  a 
manner,  he  must  learn  how  to  serve. 

And  while  the  proprietor  talked,  needing  only 
the  encouragement  of  an  occasional  pointed  ques- 
tion, Estabrook  gazed  more  or  less  musingly  at 
the  stock  in  the  shop.  He  remembered  afterward 
that  among  the  articles  prominently  displayed 
were  a  number  of  phonographs  of  an  obsolete 
pattern — ancient  machines  with  waxen  cylinders. 
But  why  he  should  have  noted  these,  or  why  he 
should  have  remembered  them  afterward,  he 
could  not  have  told. 

103 


Whispers 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  giving  only  half  his 
attention  to  the  shop  or  to  its  proprietor  or  to 
what  the  latter  was  saying.  His  main  interests 
were  centered  upon  two  points:  the  manner  in 
which  he  might  succeed  in  tracing  the  murder  of 
old  Drumm  to  his  shy  acquaintance  at  Madam 
Joan's,  and  his  coming  interview  with  Campbell 
of  the  Fidette. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  not  outlined 
anything  resembling  a  definite  plan  of  action  in 
relation  to  Cape ;  and  also  that  it  was  by  no  means 
certain  that  Campbell  would  decide  to  employ 
him.  But  he  soon  set  his  mind  at  rest  by  assur- 
ing himself  that  he  should  be  able  to  persuade 
Campbell  to  give  him  a  trial,  and  that  he  should 
then  have  a  real  incentive  to  begin  a  systematic 
examination  of  Cape  and  his  affairs. 

He  regretted  that  he  had  not  thought  of  some 
means  of  persuading  Cape  not  to  leave  town,  as, 
it  seemed,  he  was  planning  to  do  almost  immedi- 
ately. If  it  were  possible,  he  must  attend  to  that 
at  dinner  time.  As  yet  it  had  not  occurred  to  him 
that  he  need  go  beyond  Cape  himself  to  obtain 
proof  of  Cape's  guilt.  He  need  only  win  the 
young  fellow's  confidence.  He  realized  quite 
fully  that  the  hypothesis  upon  which  he  had  based 
a  conclusion  would  seem  entirely  absurd  to  most 
persons.  Cape  had  seemed  horrified  when  he  had 
heard  men  who  were  strangers  to  him  speak 
lightly  of  Drumm's  death.  He  had  seemed  hor- 

104 


A  Talk  with  Campbell 

rified,  and  profoundly  shaken.  And  later  he  had 
betrayed  the  fact  that  he  knew  at  about  what 
hour  the  old  man  had  died,  though  at  that  moment 
none  but  the  police  and  a  few  newspaper  men 
knew  of  the  old  man's  murder. 

Nevertheless,  it  would  have  seemed  absurd  to 
most  persons  that  in  a  city  of  half  a  million  men 
and  women,  chance  should  have  brought  together 
the  one  man  who  had  committed  the  crime,  and 
the  other  man  who  aspired  to  solve  the  mystery 
of  the  crime  before  any  others  should  be  able  to 
do  so. 

"It's  only  impressions  I've  got  so  far,"  mused 
Estabrook.  "At  least,  it's  mostly  impressions. 
I've  still  got  to  get  at  the  facts.  But  if  all  the 
facts  are  placed  in  my  hands — and  inside  of  a 
day  or  so,  too — it  won't  be  the  most  remarkable 
thing  that's  ever  happened  to  me  by  any  means." 

He  came  upon  a  jeweler's  clock,  posted  at  a 
corner,  and  saw  that  the  hour  lacked  but  a  few 
minutes  to  one  o'clock.  Whereupon  he  asked  a 
passer-by  where  the  Vidette  building  was  to  be 
found;  and  in  another  moment  he  was  hurrying 
to  keep  his  appointment  with  Campbell. 

He  felt,  the  instant  he  had  entered  the  Fidette's 
local  room,  that  he  had  found  a  place  where  he 
should  be  able  to  work  with  a  will.  The  evidences 
of  miserliness  which  he  had  noted  over  at  the 
News  office  were  absent  here;  and  he  sensed  at 
once  a  spirit  of  cordiality  and  simplicity  which* 

105 


Whispers 

was  entirely  to  his  liking.  Campbell  was  just  dis- 
missing the  last  of  his  reporters;  and  now  he 
glanced  up  at  Estabrook  with  a  pleasant  if  some- 
what whimsical  "Well!" — and  then  leaned  for- 
ward to  draw  a  chair  into  companionable  prox- 
imity to  his  own. 

Estabrook  sat  down;  but  as  he  did  so  he  con- 
tinued to  glance  about  the  room,  and  finally,  bring- 
ing his  eyes  back  to  Campbell's,  he  said,  "A  dif- 
ferent sort  of  place  altogether  from  the  News 
office." 

In  response  to  Campbell's  glance  of  inquiry  he 
added,  "I  went  up  there  last  night — before  I  saw 
you  at  Madam  Joan's.  I  thought  I  might  apply 
for  work  there — but  I  changed  my  mind." 

Campbell  nodded.  "They're  very  successful 
over  at  the  News,"  he  said,  "but  scarcely  anything 
else." 

Estabrook  smiled.  "I  know  that  sort  of  news- 
paper office,"  he  said.  "I  mean,  the  kind  where 
they  don't  give  vacations,  and  cut  down  the  men's 
expense  accounts,  and  have  the  habit  of  saying 
No  to  every  man  who  asks  for  more  money — and 
where  they  finally  throw  you  out,  old  and  penni- 
less, as  if  they  didn't  acknowledge  any  responsi- 
bility for  you  at  all,  or  any  indebtedness  to  you. 
It's  all  based  on  what  you  might  call  money  think- 
ing— if  that  means  anything." 

Campbell  was  regarding  his  visitor  musingly. 
If  there  had  been,  a  touch  of  banter  in  his  greet- 

106 


A  Talk  with  Campbell 

ing  at  first,  it  was  gone  now.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain veiled  intensity  in  Estabrook's  manner  which 
the  Fidette  man  could  not  help  being  impressed 
by.  "It  means  a  good  deal  to  me,"  he  said. 

"Still,"  added  Estabrook  with  a  faint,  apolo- 
getic flush,  "a  newspaper  mustn't  be  too  proud  to 
be  successful,  you'll  admit — I  mean  successful  in 
a  financial  way." 

Campbell's  glance  shifted  to  a  paper  weight  on 
his  desk.  He  rested  his  hand  on  the  weight,  turn- 
ing it  slowly  round  and  round.  "Not  too  proud 
to  be  financially  successful  by  right  methods,"  he 
amended. 

"Yes,  that — certainly." 

"You're  right,  of  course.  That's  what  every 
newspaper  should  strive  for." 

"And  yet,"  said  Estabrook,  "in  that  sense,  the 
Fidette  isn't  a  success." 

The  words  were  uttered  in  a  manner  which  was 
unmistakably  delicate  and  reticent;  yet  they  caused 
Campbell  to  frown  slightly  and  to  regard  his  vis- 
itor with  a  certain  resentment. 

Estabrook  hastened  to  add,  "Relatively,  I 
mean.  You  know  facts  get  about  among  news- 
paper men.  It's  generally  understood  among  the 
profession  that  the  News  here  has  to  have  adding 
machines  to  count  its  money,  while  the  Fidette— 
doesn't  need  adding  machines.  What  I  mean  is, 
you  haven't  got  the  crowd  with  you." 

107 


Whispers 

"The  crowd?"  echoed  Campbell  with  a  hint  of 
disdain. 

Estabrook's  whispered  words  acquired  a  new 
intensity.  "No  man  or  organization  is  success- 
ful unless  he  or  it  can  win  the  crowd.  That's 
the  thing  that  decides  in  a  democratic  country — 
the  crowd.  What  we've  got  to  believe  is  not  that 
the  crowd  is  contemptible,  but  that  in  the  end  its 
judgment  is  sound." 

Campbell's  tone  was  wholly  tentative  when  he 
asked,  "And  what's  your  idea  of  the  right  way  of 
attracting  the  crowd?" 

The  caller's  eyes  became  brilliant  with  audacity 
as  he  replied,  "The  right  way  for  the  Vidette  to 
attract  the  crowd  is  to  publish  good  stuff  that  the 
News  doesn't  get — stuff  that  will  interest  even 
'butchers  and  barbers  and  men  named  Muller,' 
as  the  German  saying  has  it.  Exclusive  stones. 
Genuine  human  interest  stories.  I'd  have  one 
every  day.  At  least  two  or  three  a  week.  I'd 
have  the  crowd  talking  on  street-cars  and  on  the 
streets — everywhere — about  something  they  saw 
in  the  Vidette.  That's  all." 

"Perfectly  simple — yet  extremely  difficult,  I 
fear." 

"Not  so  very.  I  got  on  the  trail  of  two  stories 
last  night  that  would  set  the  town  to  buzzing,  if 
they  were  printed." 

Campbell  stirred  impatiently  in  his  chair.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  his  visitor  had  thundered  in 

108 


A  Talk  with  Campbell 

the  index  long  enough.  "Would  you  mind  telling 
me  what  one  of  them  is?"  he  asked. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  both  of  them.  I  walked 
down  ten  flights  of  stairs  in  the  News  building 
last  night.  I  wanted  to  have  a  look  at  the  build- 
ing. All  the  offices  were  deserted.  I  didn't  en- 
counter a  soul  in  hall  or  on  stairway.  There 
were  just  a  few  lights  burning  up  and  down  the 
elevator  shaft.  The  tenants  of  the  building  had 
gone  home.  On  the  fourth  floor  I  ran  into  story 
No.  i.  The — the  plot,  let  me  say,  was  outlined 
in  attractive  letters  on  a  ground-glass  door:  The 
Pensett  County,  Arkansas,  Drainage  Syndicate. 
There  were  some  other  words  painted  in  smaller 
letters.  It's  a  stock  concern.  It  offers  for  sale 
certain  Arkansas  lands  which  are  to  make  poor 
purchasers  rich  when  they  are  drained.  The 
lands,  I  mean." 

"Well?"  inquired  Campbell. 

"An  attractive  scheme  on  the  face  of  it.  There 
are  several  hundreds  of  thousands  of  acres  of  the 
richest  land  in  the  world  in  Pensett  county,  Ar- 
kansas. Richer  than  the  Nile  valley  in  its  palmi- 
est day.  But.  Pensett  county,  Arkansas,  was  sur- 
veyed years  ago  by  government  experts.  And 
they  found  that  it  lies  many  feet  lower  than  its 
one  logical  drainage  outlet,  the  Mississippi  river 
and  its  tributaries.  And  it  lies  over  a  hundred 
miles  from  the  river.  Any  system  of  drainage 
worth  putting  in  would  involve  the  construction 

109 


Whispers 

of  immense  elevated  aqueducts  and  pumping  sta- 
tions costing  millions.  The  experts  reported  that 
it  would  cost  something  over  a  thousand  dollars 
per  acre  to  drain  the  land.  What  I'm  getting  at 
is  this:  The  Pensett  County,  Ark.,  Drainage  Syn- 
dicate is  a  shameless  fraud,  working  within  the 
law.  The  fellows  back  of  it  will  sell  a  good 
many  thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  stock  in  their 
company  to  persons  who  will  never  get  a  cent 
from  their  investment.  And  when  the  syndicate 
has  got  its  pockets  stuffed  it  will  disappear,  leav- 
ing only  a  handsomely  lettered  ground-glass 
door." 

"And  yet,"  said  Campbell,  "we  couldn't  very 
well  say  that  the  company  is  engaged  in  a  fraudu- 
lent enterprise." 

"Right  enough.  But  you  could  ascertain  to 
your  own  satisfaction  that  the  thing  is  a  fraud. 
Get  your  correspondents  down  in  the  vicinity  of 
Pensett  county — if  they  are  not  all  in  bed  with 
malaria — to  look  up  the  local  records  and  supply 
you  with  the  decision  of  the  government  survey- 
ors. Then  your  story  would  assume  this  form: 
a  description  of  the  persons  who  are  visiting  the 
rooms  of  the  concern  in  the  News  building.  A 
picture  of  the  lively  scenes  in  the  corridors.  And 
a  statement  showing  that  the  concern's  land — 
if  they've  really  gotten  an  option  on  any  land — 
will  cost  $1000  per  acre  to  drain,  according  to 
the  records  of  the  government.  You  needn't 

no 


A  Talk  with  Campbell 

state  in  your  story  that  the  prospective  victims 
are  probably  expecting — have  probably  been  led 
to  expect — that  the  land  will  cost  them  only  a  few 
dollars  per  acre,  after  it's  been  drained.  The 
conclusions  you'd  leave  for  the  public  to  see  for 
itself,  though  you  wouldn't  leave  any  room  for 
your  readers  to  remain  in  the  dark,  unless  they 
preferred  to  do  so." 

Campbell  closed  his  eyes  for  a  brief  moment, 
pondering  deeply. 

"It  wouldn't  be  yellow  journalism,  to  quote  the 
old  expression,"  said  Estabrook,  as  if  the  other's 
silence  implied  a  doubt  as  to  the  propriety  of  the 
course  suggested.  "It  would  be  a  simple  case  of 
serving  the  public — of  giving  it  information  of 
the  sort  which  it  has  a  right  to  expect  you  to  give 
it.  You'd  be  serving — and  you'd  be  winning 
friends." 

After  a  moment  Campbell  aroused  himself  from 
his  pondering  mood  and  assumed  a  brisk  air. 
"You  spoke  of  another  story,"  he  said. 

"So  I  did.  A  better  one  than  the  first,  I  be- 
lieve. Here  are  the  facts:  On  the  third  floor 
of  the  News  building — just  a  couple  of  yards  be- 
neath the  land  sharks — there  is  a  particularly 
handsome  office  with  this  legend  on  the  ground- 
glass  door — The  Golden  Era  Free  Transportation 
Company.  Here  there  is  being  conducted  a  fraud 
even  more  patent  than  that  of  the  drainage  outfit 
— and  yet  perhaps  a  little  further  within  the  law. 

in 


Whispers 

The  Golden  Era  Free  Transportation  Company 
have  a  scheme  which  you  can  see  through  at  a 
glance,  yet  it's  the  sort  of  thing  which  fascinates 
simple  persons — the  sort  of  individuals  P.  T.  Bar- 
num  had  in  mind  when  he  uttered  his  one  famous 
saying.  Here's  their  scheme.  They  advertise 
street-car  tickets  at  six  for  a  quarter,  though 
everybody  knows  that  the  street-car  company 
won't  sell  for  less  than  five  cents  straight,  even 
if  you  bought  by  the  million." 

"It's  not  free  transportation,  then?"  inquired 
Campbell. 

"The  sixth  ticket  is  free.  They  work  their 
quaint  little  graft  on  the  endless  chain  plan.  We'll 
suppose  that  I  go  to  them  to  claim  their  offer  of 
six  tickets  for  a  quarter.  First  I  pay  my  quar- 
ter. Then  I  consent  to  go  out  and  find  five  per- 
sons wlio  will  accept  their  offer  of  six  tickets  for 
a  quarter.  When  my  five  purchasers  come  in 
and  give  up  a  quarter  apiece  I  get  my  six  tickets. 
You  see,  the  Golden  Era  people  have  kept  their 
word  so  far.  I've  got  six  tickets  for  a  quarter, 
though  the  transportation  company  doesn't  sell 
them  for  a  mill  less  than  five  cents  apiece.  But 
the  problem  has  ceased  to  concern  just  me  and 
the  Golden  Era  people.  It  now  has  for  its 
dramatis  persona  five  persons  and  the  company. 
And  these  five  persons  undertake  to  do  what  I 
did.  The  next  step — presto ! — shows  twenty-five 
persons  involved.  Do  you  follow  the  process? 

112 


A  Talk  with  Campbell 

The  next  step  brings  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  persons  in.  You  see,  you  multiply  by  five 
each  time.  When  you've  multiplied  only  a  few 
times  more  you've  reached  a  number  which  is  up 
in  the  millions.  And  then  the  scheme  explodes 
because  everybody  is  trying  to  sell  and  there  is 
left  nobody  to  buy.  But  before  the  outer  rami- 
fications are  reached,  the  Golden  Era  people  have 
several  barrels  full  of  funds,  made  up  of  two-bit 
pieces  virtually  stolen  from  women  and  children 
and  simpletons.  And  between  sundown  and 
sunup  the  Golden  Era  organization  has  folded  its 
tent  and  is  preparing  to  begin  operations  in  new 
and  distant  fields." 

Campbell  smiled  faintly.  "How  did  you 
gather  all  this  amazing  information,"  he  asked, 
"just  by  seeing  a  legend  on  a  door?" 

"Because,"  replied  Estabrook,  "the  same 
legend  was  just  being  scraped  from  a  door  in 
Detroit  when  I  worked  there  not  long  ago,  after 
the  scheme  had  run  its  course,  and  a  nameless 
throng  of  individuals  had  been  duped." 

"Very  well,"  said  Campbell  briskly,  "that's  ex- 
clusive story  No.  2.  But  you  know  you  were 
speaking  last  night " 

"I  was  speaking  of  the  running  down  of  the 
Drumm  mystery." 

"Yes."   ' 

"Let  us  go  into  that,  then.  We'll  call  it  ex- 
clusive story  No.  3." 


Chapter  XIV 
"The  Drumm  Case — Estabrook" 

ESTABROOK  assumed  a  certain  precise  air 
to  which  both  body  and  mind  contributed. 
He  sat  just  so — drawn  together  as  if  for  a  spe- 
cial effort  and  leaning  forward  as  if  for  a  spring. 
His  mental  powers  had  been  placed  in  order  as 
documents  are  placed  in  order  in  pigeon-holes, 
each  rea^y  for  immediate  use  in  its  own  turn. 
Such  was  the  impression  he  produced  upon  Camp- 
bell. 

"My  idea,"  he  began,  "is  to  turn  in  the  Drumm 
story  complete — the  name  of  the  slayer,  the  mo- 
tive, etc. — within  forty-eight  hours  after  my  first 
meeting  with  you  last  night.  I  may  have  some 
sort  of  preliminary  story  in  time  for  the  next  is- 
sue of  the  Vidette,  to-morrow  morning.  But  my 
own  idea  is  that  it  will  be  better  to  announce,  to- 
morrow morning,  that  there  are  no  new  develop- 
ments beyond  the  usual  statements  from  the  office 
of  the  chief  of  police.  That  would  give  greater 
force  to  the  publication,  the  morning  after,  of 
the  complete  story — including  the  statement  that 
the  man  who  had  committed  the  crime  had  been 
placed  under  arrest." 

114 


"The  Drumm  Case — Estabrook" 

Campbell's  expression  was  an  odd  combination 
of  impatience  and  amazement.  Presently  he  said, 
almost  sharply — "Come,  come !  You  must  admit 
.that  that  sounds  scarcely — scarcely  rational!" 

Estabrook's  manner  was  amiably  deprecatory. 
"Maybe  it  does,"  he  conceded.  "Still,  I'm  pro- 
posing only  what  I  honestly  expect  to  do." 

"Do  you  mean  me  to  infer  that  you  have  knowl- 
edge at  present  of  the  slayer's  name  and  where- 
abouts?" 

"I  think  I  may  say  that  I  have." 

Campbell  frowned.  "Then  I  should  say  that  it 
sounds  very  much  like  an  instance  of  being  acces- 
sory before  the  fact " 

Estabrook's  eyes  fairly  danced.  "I'd  never 
seen  the  man  until  some  two  or  three  hours  after 
the  crime  was  committed.  I  had  never  known  of 
his  existence." 

"I  can  only  conclude,  then,  that  he  came  upon 
you  by  chance,  and  confessed  to  you  because  you 
were  the  only  person  he  could  find  who'd  listen  to 
him." 

"N — o,  that's  scarcely  the  case." 

"Yet  he  must  have  confessed  to  you?" 

Estabrook  pondered.  "It's  so  difficult  to  reply 
to  a  question  sometimes  by  a  plain  Yes  or  No— 
isnt  it?"  he  said.  And  then,  as  if  he  were  trying 
to  escape  from  certain  superficial  handicaps,  he 
broke  out  with — "If  I  shouldn't  be  taking  too 


Whispers 

much  of  your  time  I'd  like  to  explain  one  or  two 
of  my  theories  to  you." 

Campbell  leaned  back  and  clasped  his  hands 
behind  his  head.  "I've  nothing  to  do  for  hours," 
he  said,  "except  to  remain  here  within  reach  of 
the  telephone." 

"Good!  I'm  glad  of  that!  Well,  then,  to  ex- 
plain one  of  my  theories:  For  a  long  time  I've 
considered  language — words — the  cause  of  near- 
ly all  human  ills.  To  illustrate:  When  A  makes 
a  statement  to  B  the  chances  are  that  B  takes  it 
to  mean  something  that  A  never  had  in  mind  at 
all.  That's  true,  even  if  A  and  B  are  both  fairly 
intelligent  persons.  The  whole  world  goes  about 
with  its  brain  filled  with  misconceptions,  misun- 
derstandings. Wars  and  marriages  and  other 
fateful  events  come  about  as  often  as  not  because 
two  individuals  or  two  groups  of  individuals  put 
different  interpretations  upon  the  same  words. 
When  I  ask  a  man  to  lend  me  five  dollars  I  don't 
listen  to  what  he  has  to  say.  I  watch  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face.  And  I  know  immediately  that 
I'm  not  going  to  get  the  five,  though  he's  only  just 
begun  on  a  long  exposition  touching  the  ways  of 
landlords,  or  doctors,  or  butchers  and  grocers. 
When  I  ask  a  boy  if  he's  been  stealing  apples  I 
go  even  further.  I  don't  even  look  at  the  boy.  I 
look  at  his  mother.  Her  face  declares,  in  a  uni- 
versal language,  'Ah — so  the  little  thief's  been  at 
it  again!' — though  she  may  turn  on  me  with  the 

116 


"The  Drumm  Case — Estabrook" 

declaration  that  little  Benny  never  stole  a  thing 
in  his  life.  When  the  financial  magnate  informs 
me  that  he  got  his  start  by  saving  the  first  dollar 
he  ever  earned,  I  allow  the  statement  to  pass ;  but 
I  notice  that  when  he  buys  apples  at  the  fruit 
stand  he  keeps  the  largest  one  for  himself.  You 
see  what  I'm  getting  at.  Well,  the  man  who  slew 
Pheneas  Drumm  did  confess  to  me,  though  he 
doesn't  know  it." 

"And  you  met  him " 

"I  met  him  at  Madam  Joan's.  He's  stopping 
at  Madam  Joan's  at  this  moment." 

Again  Campbell  seemed  at  the  point  of  losing 
his  patience  completely.  "But,  my  dear  sir,"  he 
demanded,  "how  would  you  explain  the  man's 
being  in  a  place  like  Madam  Joan's — a  place  so 
obscurely  located  that  it's  known  chiefly  only  to 
the  initiated?" 

Again  Estabrook's  eyes  brightened.  "That 
brings  me  to  another  one  of  my  theories,"  he 
said.  "Do  you  know,  if  I  had  a  nice  little  brother 
whom  I  was  particularly  fond  of,  and  he  killed 
some  helpless  old  man,  what  I'd  advise  him  to 
do?  I'd  advise  him  to  stop  at  the  most  prominent 
hotel  in  the  largest  city  in  the  world,  and  make 
his  appearance  only  on  the  most  fashionable 
thoroughfares.  The  amateur  criminal  always 
seeks  the  obscurest  place  possible;  the  quietest 
hotel,  the  most  deserted  streets.  The  man's  being 

117 


Whispers 

at  Madam  Joan's  is  the  easiest  thing  of  all  to 
explain.  What  I  can't  understand " 

His  expression  became  pensive  and  regretful 
for  an  instant  as  he  thought  of  Cape's  timidity  and 
youth  and  his  helpless,  appealing  manner. 

"You  were  going  to  say "  prompted  Camp- 
bell. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  go  into  that  just  now. 
After  all,  my  chief  purpose  this  afternoon  was  to 
convince  you  that  I  can  find  your  man  for  you, 
if  you  care  to  try  me." 

"I'm  going  to,"  said  Campbell.  He  added,  as 
if  in  self-jtfstification,  "I  need  a  good  man.  Quite 
apart  from  the  Drumm  mystery " 

When  he  paused  Estabrook  exclaimed  with 
enthusiasm,  "Ah,  but  we'll  want  to  solve  the 
Drumm  mystery.  We'll  want  to  beat  the  News 
to  it,  too.  It's  our  chance."  He  settled  down  in 
his  chair,  and  his  eyes,  though  they  seemed  to  rest 
upon  nothing,  acquired  the  light  of  one  who  sees 
visions.  Suddenly  he  pulled  himself  together.  "I 
wish,"  he  said,  "you  cared  to  know  about  my  at- 
titude toward  a  newspaper !  I  love  to  talk  about 
it!" 

Campbell  smiled  patiently.  "I'd  rather  like  to 
know  about  your  attitude,"  he  said;  "that  is,"  he 
added,  "if  you  can  spare  the  time " 

Estabrook  flushed  slightly,  because  the  other 
man's  final  words  had  been  uttered  a  little  mock- 
ingly. "I've  an  engagement  with  my  man  for  din- 

118 


"The  Drumm  Case — Estabrook" 

ner  this  evening,"  he  explained.  "I  can  scarcely  do 
anything  with  him  before  then."  The  flush  slowly 
faded  from  his  face,  the  light  deepened  in  his  eyes. 
"My  attitude  toward  a  newspaper,"  he  continued, 
"is  that  it  ought  to  be  a  champion,  a  crusader,  a 
hero,  a  gladiator.  That's  the  way  it  wins  a  fol- 
lowing. That's  the  way  it  deserves  one.  But  it 
must  be  genuine,  you  know.  It  mustn't  espouse 
only  the  causes  which  are  profitable.  It  must 
espouse  every  cause  that  is  right.  And  in  the 
long  run  the  crowd  will  be  with  it.  And  mind  you, 
I  don't  mean  that  it  must  always  take  sides  arbi- 
trarily with  the  people  who  are  poor,  with  the 
people  who  do  the  manual  tasks.  When  such 
persons  are  in  the  wrong  it  must  show  them  where 
they  are  wrong.  That's  the  only  real  way  to  take 
sides  with  them.  But  it  must  show  the  people  who 
are  simple  and  unlearned  that  it's  out  to  slay  drag- 
ons every  time  they  lift  their  heads." 

Campbell  smiled  patiently. 

"That  sounds  extravagant,  I  know.  Let  me 
simplify  it.  I  spoke  to  you  of  the  Golden  Era 
Free  Transportation  Company,  and  of  that  fake 
drainage  scheme.  That's  the  sort  of  dragons  I 
mean — the  cunning  creatures  who  try  to  rob  the 
unsophisticated  of  their  pennies  and  dollars. 
They're  the  real,  every-day  dragons.  But  here  we 
have  St.  George  in  the  offing!  The  real  news- 
paper cries  out,  'You  shall  not  rob  these  people !' 
Don't  you  see  how  surely  the  crowd  would  come 

119 


Whispers 

to  understand  that?  That's  the  real  province  of 
a  newspaper.  Suppose  you  publish  a  learned  arti- 
cle on  the  science  of  government — a  fine  abstrac- 
tion. What's  the  result?  Fifty  of  your  readers 
will  nod  their  approval  and  say,  'The  Vidette  is 
an  excellent  newspaper.'  Yet  forty  of  the  fifty  are 
too  busy  to  read  the  article,  or  they  know  what's 
in  it  and  agree  with  it  without  reading.  Nine  out 
of  the  fifty  will  read  it  without  grasping  it.  Only 
one  will  really  appreciate  it  and  perhaps  cut  it 
out  and  file  it.  But  when  you  slay  a  dragon — 
why,  then,  man,  the  crowd  comes  on  the  run. 
There  are  thousands  of  persons  interested  in  the 
fake  schemes  I've  told  you  about.  They're  in 
them  themselves,  or  their  neighbors  are.  If  you 
kill  a  dragon  thousands  of  men  say,  'It's  in  the 
Vidette!  And  if  you  keep  on  killing  dragons  you 
soon  find  that  you  have  to  increase  your  supply  of 
print  paper,  and  that  you  haven't  any  return  cop- 
ies on  your  hands." 

Campbell's  smile  was  becoming  a  little  less  pat- 
ronizing. "And  the  Drumm  mystery,"  he  sug- 
gested, "how  does  your  theory  of  dragon-slaying 
apply  to  that?" 

For  an  instant  Estabrook  seemed  at  a  loss  for 
words.  Then  with  new  energy  he  said,  "Ah,  that 
touches  another  theory  of  mine — the  Drumm  case. 
Let  me  go  into  that.  You  know  there  are  only 
two  things  that  a  newspaper  must  do :  it  must  in- 
form and  it  must  entertain.  It  must  publish  facts 

120 


"The  Drumm  Case — Estabrook" 

and  stories.  And  of  the  very  few  universal  themes 
for  stories,  one  of  the  most  thrilling  is  the  theme 
of  bloodshed." 

In  response  to  Campbell's  dubious  frown  he 
continued,  "I'm  not  going  into  the  question  of 
ethics.  I'm  speaking  only  of  conditions.  Warfare 
always  provides  the  most  absorbing  story  that  can 
go  into  a  newspaper,  and  all  the  other  chronicles 
of  bloodshed,  down  to  a  simple  case  of  fisticuffs 
on  the  public  streets,  are  proportionately  interest- 
ing. And  by  the  way,  you'll  notice  that  the  news- 
papers which  disdain  to  handle  stories  of  blood- 
shed in  which  only  two  are  involved  will  fall 
into  line  readily  enough  when  there's  a  war — 
though  the  two  things  are  on  precisely  the  same 
plane  in  point  of  ethics.  People  want  to  know 
about  deeds  of  violence.  You'll  note  that  the 
wise  heads  that  planned  the  Bible  didn't  wait 
long  to  introduce  Cain  and  Abel — they  put  them 
in  long  before  they  mentioned  Solomon  or  Job" 
or  Jesus.  And  the  Bible,  you  know,  has  been  a 
pretty  successful  book,  commercially  as  well  as 
otherwise." 

At  this  point  Campbell  leaned  back  and  laughed 
so  heartily  and  unrestrainedly  that  his  caller  was 
startled. 

"And  yet  it's  true?"  remonstrated  Estabrook. 

The  amusement  died  slowly  from  Campbell's 
eyes.  An  expression  almost  of  bewilderment  fol- 
lowed. He  could  not  understand  why  he  should 

121 


Whispers 

have  been  so  strangely  impressed  by  this  man  who 
spoke  in  exaggerations,  if  not  actually  in  sophis- 
tries. It  was  the  voice,  perhaps,  which  never 
shook  off  the  huskiness  which  clung  to  it — which 
went  on  whispering  as  if  it  were  conveying  wholly 
strange  and  unknown  yet  greatly  important  mat- 
ters. Yes,  it  must  be  the  whispering  voice;  and 
perhaps,  to  a  lesser  degree,  the  keen  eyes  and 
the  seeming  intensity  of  conviction. 

"It  is  true,"  continued  Estabrook.  "Take  the 
case  of  our  friend  Drumm.  If  he  had  contributed 
half  a  million  to  the  cause  of  maintaining  univer- 
sal peace  you'd  have  given  him  ten  lines  on  an  in- 
side page  of  the  Vidette.  But  because  he  shed  his 
blood  involuntarily  you  gave  him  this."  And  he 
put  forth  his  hand  and  laid  it  palm  downward  on 
a  full  column  story  on  the  first  page  of  the  Fi- 
dette's  Sunrise  Edition. 

"Let's  get  at  the  psychology  of  it,"  he  added, 
"if  you  don't  mind  my  using  an  overworked  word. 
A  deed  of  violence  usually  implies  a  man-hunt. 
And  when  you  go  on  a  man-hunt  you  touch  every 
man  in  your  community  in  two  sensitive  spots. 
First,  you  touch  his  sense  of  justice,  of  fairness. 
The  murderer — if  it  be  the  case  of  a  murder — 
must  be  taken  because  of  the  evil  deed  he  has 
done.  But  mixed  with  this  sentiment,  so  subtly 
that  you  can't  tell  where  one  begins  and  the  other 
ends,  is  the  love  of  the  chase.  Here's  a  human 
being  in  hiding.  He  is  matching  his  wits  against 

122 


"The  Drumm  Case — E  stab  rook" 

yours.  You  are  keen  to  find  him.  You  are  eager 
to  be  in  at  the  finish.  At  such  a  time  every  man 
is  part  of  a  mob — though  he  may  not  stir  out  of 
his  own  house.  His  interests,  to  some  extent 
even  his  passions,  are  bound  up  in  those  of  a  great 
number  of  men.  The  slaying  of  an  individual 
has  in  it,  in  little,  all  the  elements  of  a  great  trag- 
edy. And  in  the  case  of  Drumm  there  are  added 
certain  obscurities  which  increase  the  dramatic 
value  of  the  situation.  The  mystery  surrounding 
him ;  the  fact  that  thousands  knew  him  superficially 
without  knowing  him  really;  the  absence  of  any 
obvious  motive  on  the  part  of  his  slayer — all 
these  circumstances  help-  And  it's  the  Fidette's 
story.  The  News  has  put  itself  out  of  court  by 
its  silly  attack  on  the  police  force.  That's  stale 
stuff  in  no  matter  what  city  you  happen  to  be.  A 
police  force  has  got  little  or  nothing  to  do  with 
crime.  It's  all  right  for  cases  of  disturbances  of 
the  peace,  to  arrest  men  for  beating  their  wives 
or  children  or  dumb  beasts.  But  when  it  comes 
to  criminals,  a  police  officer  is  almost  as  helpless 
as  a  town  marshal  would  be  against  an  invading 
army.  Public  sentiment  makes  him  helpless — 
even  if  he  had  any  real  ability.  If  he  arrests  a 
real  criminal — unless  the  latter  is  a  stranger  in 
the  city — there's  a  bondsman  for  the  criminal  be- 
fore he  is  taken  as  far  as  the  nearest  police  sta- 
tion. And  if  his  case  is  taken  into  court  it  de- 
velops that  the  prosecuting  witness  has  been 

123 


Whispers 

warned  that  if  he  offers  testimony  against  him 
his  property  and  the  wellbeing  of  himself  and 
his  family  will  be  placed  in  jeopardy.  It's  no  use 
abusing  the  police.  That's  not  the  newspaper's 
job.  It's  to  ferret  out  facts  and  publish  them. 
And  my  job,  with  your  permission,  will  be  to  lay 
bare  all  the  facts  touching  the  death  of  that  old 
man  who  rented  masks,  but  who  kept  the  best 
mask  he  had  for  his  own  personal  use." 

Campbell  was  smiling  again — but  his  smile  now 
was  one  of  a  certain  deep  satisfaction.  He  partly 
arose  and  took  down  an  assignment  book  from  the 
top  of  his  desk.  In  it  he  made  an  entry  of  four 
words : 

The  Drumm  case — Estabrook. 

He  held  the  book  so  that  Estabrook  could  read. 
Then  he  said  briskly,  yet  cordially — "And  good 
luck  to  you." 


124 


Chapter  XV 
The  Spider  and  the  Fly 

ESTABROOK  entered  Madam  Joan's  public 
dining-room  a  little  after  six  o'clock.  The 
sun  had  been  shining  in  his  eyes  when  he  left  the 
street;  but  now  he  found  himself  in  a  region  of 
restful  shadows,  and  a  second  glance  sufficed  to 
inform  him  that  for  the  moment  he  was  the  only 
patron  in  the  room.  He  chose  a  seat  deliberately 
and  unfolded  the  evening  paper  which  he  had  been 
carrying  in  his  coat  pocket;  and  when  a  waitress 
appeared  presently  he  explained  that  he  would  not 
give  his  order  until  he  had  been  joined  by  a  friend 
whom  he  was  expecting. 

For  ten  minutes  or  more  he  remained  alone; 
and  then  he  found  his  eyes  being  drawn  away 
from  his  newspaper  by  an  uncomfortable  feeling 
of  being  observed.  He  glanced  sharply  toward 
the  street  entrance.  Just  inside  the  door  stood 
Beakman  and  another  man,  both  regarding  him 
as  if  with  a  certain  derisive  amusement. 

He  had  scarcely  time  to  focus  his  glance  upon 
them  when  they  disappeared  by  way  of  the  door- 
way which  led  to  the  private  dining-rooms  above. 

125 


Whispers 

But  during  that  fleeting  moment  he  recognized 
Beakman's  companion  as  the  reporter  whom  he 
had  encountered  earlier  in  the  day  in  the  shop  of 
the  late  Pheneas  Drumm. 

He  resumed  the  reading  of  his  newspaper,  con- 
scious of  a  slight  irritation  because  of  the  furtive 
and  contemptuous  manner  in  which  the  two  News 
men  had  regarded  him.  He  felt  vaguely  menaced 
because  of  the  necessity  of  carrying  forward  his 
plans  in  relation  to  Cape  here  in  a  stronghold  of 
reporters,  including  the  man  who  was,  presumably, 
looking  after  the  Drumm  case  for  the  News.  Well, 
he  should  have  to  be  doubly  wary — that,  was  all. 

Then  there  was  another  interruption;  and  this 
time  it  was  Cape. 

He  was  thrilled  by  the  expression  on  Cape's 
face:  an  expression  at  first  forlorn — before  the 
eyes  had  sought  out  the  solitary  occupant  of  the 
room — and  then  beamingly  glad,  like  the  face  of 
a  child.  He  put  aside  his  paper  with  an  air  of 
relief.  "Ah!"  he  exclaimed  cordially. 

Cape  approached  and  took  the  seat  opposite 
him,  his  face  flushed  slightly  with  pleasure,  his 
eyes  appealingly  bright.  "You  did  remember!" 
he  said. 

"My  engagement  with  you?  Oh,  yes!  I 
shouldn't  have  forgotten  that." 

"I  was  thinking — it  doesn't  mean  much  to  you, 
you  Know;  that  is,  compared  with  what  it  means 
to  me.  You're  the  first  soul  I've  met  in  this  big 

126 


The  Spider  and  the  Fly 

town  who  seemed  to  know  whether  I  was  a  living 
human  being,  or  just  a — a  mechanical  figure  of 
some  kind."  He  adjusted  his  chair  nervously,  and 
Estabrook  noted  that  the  expression  of  forlorn- 
ness  crept  back  into  his  eyes  slowly,  as  an  indeli- 
ble stain  will  come  back. 

"Any  progress  to  report?"  inquired  the  news- 
paper man  as  he  took  up  the  bill  of  fare.  He 
spoke  casually  yet  kindly. 

"You  mean,  have  I  run  across  anything?  No 
—no,  I  scarcely  expect  to  do  that."  He  paused 
broodingly  an  instant  and  then  continued  with  an 
effort,  "You'll  scarcely  realize  how  helpless  I 
feel.  I  can't  seem  even  to  look  for  work,  or  ask 
for  it,  except  in  such  a  backward  way  that  nobody 
would  be  willing  to  listen  to  me.  And  yet  I  feel 
that  if  I  once  had  a  chance — at  anything,  really— 
I'd  wish  to  work  feverishly,  so  that  I  ceuld  forget 
— forget  what  it  seems  like  not  to  have  a  place 
anywhere." 

Estabrook  spoke  decisively.  "I'm  going  to  help 
you  to  get  over  that.  You've  been  bluffed,  that's 
all.  I've  seen  young  fellows  like  that  lots  of  times. 
My  idea  is  that  we  must  put  you  on  your  feet 
squarely — until  you  get  to  traveling  right.  That's 
all  you  need." 

Cape  swallowed  with  difficulty.  He  could  not 
speak  immediately;  but  presently  he  said,  "Yes, 
that's  what  I  need — to  get  started  right." 

"And  you're  going  to  fight  it  out  right  here," 
127 


Whispers 

continued  Estabrook.  "You  had  an  idea  of  going 
away,  I  think.  But  it  doesn't  do  to  run  away  from 
an  enemy  of  any  sort.  You  must  always  face  him. 
And  enemies  -.  .  .  they're  a  strange  lot.  Some- 
times it's  the  little  ones  who  ruin  us,  while  the  big 
ones  are  the  making  of  us." 

He  gave  his  attention  to  the  waitress  for  a 
moment;  and  when  she  had  gone  away  he  sat 
thoughtfully  regarding  his  companion,  ready  to 
smile  whenever  he  caught  his  eye. 

"I — don't  want  to  go  away,  now,"  said  Cape. 
"You  see,  there  doesn't  seem  anywhere  to  go.  I've 
never  lived  anywhere  but  in  one  little  town,  and  I 
— I  couldn't  go  back  there.  I  can't  explain " 

"You  needn't.  Even  if  there  are  special  rea- 
sons, I  know  enough  about  the  general  reasons. 
To  go  back  to  a  little  town,  unsuccessful;  that 
would  seem  like  permanent  defeat.  You'd  be 
fatally  handicapped.  No,  you  ought  to  stay  right 
here.  And  you  know — I'm  sure  you'll  not  mind 
my  speaking  of  it — in  the  matter  of  a  little  finan- 
cial help,  like  the  squaring  of  Madam  Joan,  you're 
to  look  to  me  for  the  time  being.  There — it's 
nothing.  It's  settled.  And  it'll  not  be  for  long." 

Just  the  suspicion  of  a  quiver  ran  across  Cape's 
face.  "I'm  not  saying  I'll  accept,"  he  said  when 
he  could  command  his  voice;  "but  I  do  say  that 
if  I  should  accept  it  will  be  a  debt  that  will  be 
repaid." 

"Of  course  it  will!"  declared  Estabrook,  and 
128 


The  Spider  and  the  Fly 

then  another  silence  fell  between  them.  It  re- 
mained unbroken  when  the  waitress  returned  with 
the  food  they  had  ordered;  and  then  Estabrook 
said  cheerfully,  "Now,  let's  enjoy  our  bite,  and  if 
there  are  any  dark  closets  to  open  we'll  open  them 
afterward." 

He  spoke  lightly,  of  pleasant  things  only,  dur- 
ing the  meal;  and  even  when  they  had  come  to 
their  coffee  he  did  not  seem  disposed  to  sound 
out  any  hidden  ground.  It  was  Cape  who  said  at 
last,  with  a  diffidence  which  was  not  to  be  over- 
come at  first,  "You  spoke  a  little  while  ago  about 
getting  a  right  start.  But  you  know  that's  an 
awful  hard  matter  sometimes.  It  was  my  getting 
a  wrong  start — at  the  very  beginning,  al- 
most  " 

When  he  paused,  groping  for  words,  Estabrook 
put  in  easily,  "Suppose  you  tell  me  about  that." 
He  permitted  his  mind  to  wander  a  moment  while 
he  glanced  casually  about  the  room.  He  hoped 
there  might  be  no  interruption.  He  hoped  above 
everything  else  that  Beakman  and  his  companion 
might  not  return  by  way  of  the  public  dining- 
room.  He  thought  it  improbable  that  they  would 
do  so ;  and  as  for  other  interruptions,  he  concluded 
that  he  had  little  to  fear  on  that  score  for  perhaps 
an  hour  or  so.  Madam  Joan's  patrons  .as  a  class 
were  late-comers.  He  brought  his  glance  invit- 
ingly back  to  Cape's  eyes. 

"I  had  a  mind  to  do  it  last  night,"  said  Cape. 
129 


Whispers 

"I  mean,  when  you  were  talking  about — what  did 
you  call  it? — about  a  Public  Adviser." 

Estabrook  laughed.  "I'm  afraid  I  talked 
rather  whimsically  about  that,"  he  said. 

But  Cape  became  grave.  "It  sounded  so  rea- 
sonable," he  declared;  "and  the  way  you  pictured 
the  old  lady  who  really  didn't  exist " 

"Ah,  but  she  does  exist!  There  are  thousands 
of  her!" 

"Yes,  in  that  way.  But  I  had  a  mind  to  ask 
to  be  your  first  client — just  in  a  confidential  way, 
you  know." 

"Well "  said  Estabrook. 

"You  see,  I've  gotten  myself  into  a  rather 
peculiar  predicament.  There  doesn't  seem  any 
place  for  me  to  go  to.  No  place  at  all." 

He  paused  so  long  after  that  statement  that 
Estabrook  prompted  him  gently.  "You  mustn't 
let  that  upset  you,  you  know.  You're  at  an  age 
when  that  sort  of  predicament  is  common.  You've 
come  to  a  point  where  you  must  make  a  place  for 
yourself.  That's  the  whole  truth." 

"But,  you  see,  my  case  is  a  little  different  from 
the  ordinary.  I  don't  know  how  to  do  anything. 
I  mean,  I've  no  special  skill.  I've  got  no  relatives 
or  friends  to  turn  to.  I'm  almost  more  alone  than 
anyone  else  I  ever  heard  of." 

"Then  you  must  make  connections  of  some  sort: 
business  and  social.  It's  easy,  at  your  age." 

But  Cape  only  frowned  in  perplexity,  as  if  im- 
130 


The  Spider  and  the  Fly 

passable  barriers  arose  between  him  and  a  frank 
understanding  with  his  companion.  Presently  he 
tried  again :  "You  see,  I  didn't  get  the  right  start 
as  a  boy.  It  was  this  way:  I  lived  in  a  little  town, 
and  I  grew  up  with  the  belief  that  I'd  have  money 
some  day.  A  great  deal  of  it.  My  father  died 
before  I  knew  him.  But  my  mother  was  supposed 
to  have  a  really  large  estate.  I  never  knew  what  it 
consisted  of — her  estate.  For  a  long  time  I  never 
gave  a  thought  to  it.  I  only  knew  that  we  lived 
very  well  and  that  there  never  seemed  any  cause 
for  worry.  There  was  an  uncle — my  mother's 
brother.  And  he  had  full  control  of  my  mother's 
affairs  after  my  father's  death.  She  was  that  kind 
of  a  woman.  Yielding  and  impractical.  You  see, 
her  estate  and  my  uncle's  were  all  one.  I  always 
understood  vaguely  that  there  were  reasons  why 
it  couldn't  be  divided.  Not  for  a  long  time,  at  any 
rate.  And  then  my  uncle  became  interested  in 
some  project  which  required  him  to  locate  some- 
where at  a  distance.  And  he  went  away." 

He  paused  in  perplexity,  and  Estabrook  got 
the  impression  that  he  was  trying  to  decide  how 
much  he  ought  to  hold  back,  and  how  much  he 
might  discreetly  disclose. 

"I  remember,"  continued  Cape,  "that  papers 
for  my  mother  to  sign  came  once  or  twice,  with 
very  explicit  directions  as  to  where  she  was  to 
sign;  and  she  signed  them  and  sent  them  away. 
And  it  seemed  that  her  income  continued  just  as 


Whispers 

usual  for  a  while  after  that.  And  then  something 
happened.  My  first  knowledge  that  something 
had  gone  wrong  was  that  my  uncle  couldn't  be 
located.  My  mother's  letters  to  him  were  re- 
turned. And  I  gathered  that  she  was  trying  to 
locate  him  and  that  she  was  tremendously  wor- 
ried. She  sought  advice — from  a  lawyer,  finally 
• — and  they  were  all  trying  to  find  out  what  had 
become  of  my  uncle.  And  then  it  developed  that 
my  mother's  income  had  been  cut  off.  We  hadn't 
anything  at  all. 

"She  thought  it  was  simply  a  bad  period  which 
we'd  have  to  tide  over  somehow.  She  kept  ex- 
pecting to  hear  from  her  brother.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  she  could  be  made  to  accept  the  truth. 
She  borrowed  money  here  and  there,  and  ran  bills. 
And  I  remember  how  indignant  she  was — and  I, 
too — when  she  found  that  it  had  become  very  dif- 
ficult to  borrow  money,  or  to  have  her  credit  ex- 
tended at  the  stores.  Her  pride  was  wounded, 
and  she  got  so  that  she  wouldn't  ask  favors  of  any- 
one. She  raised  money  on  our  home,  and  paid 
off  all  the  debts.  She  had  a  small  balance  left,  and 
she  took  a  good  deal  of  pride  in  paying  for  every- 
thing she  needed — and  perhaps  for  a  good  many 
things  we  didn't  really  need.  She  used  to  tell 
me  how  she  would  make  certain  individuals  feel 
ashamed  of  themselves  when  our  affairs  were 
straightened  out  again,  and  the  debt  on  the  house 


The  Spider  and  the  Fly 

was  paid  off,  and  her  income  was  again  at  her  dis- 
posal. 

"I  think  she  was  the  very  last  person  in  town 
to  realize  that  old — that  my  uncle  was  a  thief  and 
that  he  had  ruined  her.  I've  no  doubt  that  a  good 
many  persons  had  always  known  him  better  than 
she  did,  really.  But  she  seemed  to  realize  the 
truth  at  last — though  I  never  knew  exactly  when 
or  how  this  came  about.  You  see,  she  wouldn't 
allow  me  to  change  my  way  of  living  or  thinking 
for  a  long  time.  There  was  a  private  academy  in 
the  town  and  I  kept  attending  this  long  after  our 
means  justified  my  doing  so.  I  was  learning  orna- 
mental things,  chiefly.  My  mother  couldn't  think 
in  any  terms  other  than  those  of  class  distinctions. 
I  was  to  be  a  gentleman  and  I  was  never  to  engage 
in  any  but  gentlemanly  occupations.  That  was  my 
own  idea,  too,  though  I  didn't  really  understand 
what  was  meant  by  it.  I  doubt  if  she  did  either. 
But  for  a  long  time  we  went  on  living  in  the  old 
atmosphere — our  house  open  to  everyone,  with 
someone  always  at  our  table,  without  any  cere- 
mony at  all,  and  a  certain  air  of  leisure  and  ele- 
gance about  the  place — as  if  we  only  had  to  rub 
a  lamp  to  get  more  money.  Have  I  made  it 
plain?" 

"Very,"  said  Estabrook. 

"Then  at  last,  as  I  said,  she  realized  the  truth. 
And  it  had  the  most  distressing  effect  upon  her. 
Of  course  she  wasn't  a  woman  of  practical  sense 

133 


Whispers 

— though  I  don't  mean  she  wasn't  a  dear  and 
lovely  lady.  She  was  all  of  that.  But  you  couldn't 
have  expected  her  to  readjust  herself  any  more 
than  you  could  expect  a  wisteria  vine  to  become 
a  grape,  or  a  fruit-bearing  tree.  She  began  to 
muse  in  a  dark  sort  of  way,  so  that  you'd  have  to 
speak  to  her  twice  before  she'd  hear  you — and 
then  she  would  seem  startled.  She'd  have  unshed 
tears  in  her  eyes  at  the  most  unexpected  moments 
— for  example,  when  I  tried  to  appear  resolute 
and  cheerful.  You  see,  I'd  begun  to  try  to  think  of 
ways  of  supporting  her  and  protecting  her.  And 
the  thing  that  hurt  me  worst  of  all  was  her  seem- 
ing certainty  that  she  mustn't  depend  on  me.  She 
seemed  to  have  decided  that  she  mustn't  depend 
upon  anything — that  she  mustn't  hope  for  any- 
thing. And  for  a  long  time — for  perhaps*  two 
years — she  became  more  listless  and  frail  and 
strange. 

"I  had  left  the  academy  before  this  time  and 
found  a  position.  I  was  made  assistant  to  a  book- 
keeper. A  gentleman  who  had  always  been  a 
friend  of  my  mother's  gave  me  this  chance.  The 
theory  was  that  I  should  learn  book-keeping,  so 
that  I  might  make  a  real  salary  after  a  while.  But 
my  academy  training  had  been  ridiculously  super- 
ficial. I  didn't  even  know  the  multiplication 
tables.  I'm  sure  I  didn't  earn  the  five  dollars  a 
week  that  was  paid  me,  even  by  helping  the  clerks 
when  I  had  nothing  else  to  do.  Yet  I  had  fearful 

134 


The  Spider  and  the  Fly 

struggles  with  my  pride  when  I  thought  of  the 
mean  sum  I  was  earning,  and  the  impossibility  of 
making  it  do.  Neither  my  mother  nor  I  had  ever 
learned  to  economize,  and  my  office-boy  income 
wouldn't  have  gone  very  far  in  any  case. 

"And  then  I  did  the  only  thing  which  I  can 
remember  now  with  any  satisfaction  at  all.  I  gave 
up  my  position  as  assistant  book-keeper  and  ap- 
plied for  work  at  another  place  as  a  common  la- 
borer. My  mother  had  become  really  ill  by  this 
time  and  I  couldn't  plan  for  the  future.  The  book- 
keeping post  might  have  been  all  right  in  years 
to  come,  but  we  needed  more  money  immediately. 
I  was  then  eighteen  and  fairly  large  for  my  age. 
And  so  I  went  to  work  for  a  dollar  and  seventy- 
five  cents  a  day,  lifting  boxes  and  bales  and  par- 
cels from  a  freight  platform  to  the  wagons  which 
backed  up  to  be  loaded.  And  you  know  the 
thing  about  that  job  which  hurt  worst  was  not 
the  strained  muscles  and  the  blistered  hands,  but 
the  fact  that  the  foreman  had  to  spare  me  the 
heavier  loads,  putting  them  on  others,  and  that 
the  teamsters  had  to  come  to  my  aid  now  and 
again — though  they  weren't  required  to  do  so. 
They  were  generous  toward  me  and  I  had  to  ac- 
cept their  generosity  without  any  chance  at  all 
of  repaying  them."  i 

He  hung  his  head  moodily  for  a  moment  and  a 
frown  of  deep  humiliation  darkened  his  brow. 

Estabrook  leaned  across  the  table  and  said  in 
135 


Whispers 

his  intense  whisper:  "But  don't  you  see  that  there 
was  a  real  man  at  work — doing  his  level  best?" 

But  Cape  shook  his  head  slowly.  "It  was  just 
a  flicker — it  wasn't  the  real  thing.  If  I'd  won  out, 
that  would  have  been  fine.  But  I — I  failed.  I 
was  too  soft.  I  had  too  many  wrong  ideas  to  get 
rid  of.  I  began  to  suffer  from  despondency,  and 
I  couldn't  throw  it  off.  At  first  it  was  only  now 
and  again  that  I  felt  so  horribly  dejected;  but 
after  a  time  it  got  to  be  a  permanent  condition. 
It  got  so  that  I  couldn't  even  try  to  be  resigned 
or  hopeful.  I  began  to  harbor  hatred:  toward  my 
work,  toward  my  employers,  toward  the  whole 
world.  I  couldn't  cast  aside  my  dark  mood  even 
when  I  went  home.  The  tii  le  came  when  my 
mother  and  I  rarely  spoke  to  each  other.  We 
didn't  lose  our  affection  for  each  other.  I  don't 
mean  that.  But — well,  we  were  just  out  of  place 
in  the  new  world  in  which  we  were  forced  to  live. 

"And  then  my  mother  took  to  her  bed,  seriously 
ill.  I  should  have  seen  that  coming,  but  I'd  gotten 
so  that  I  didn't  notice  closely.  It  was  a  surprise 
to  me,  a  new  burden,  a  new  grievance.  For  weeks 
she  seemed  rarely  to  move.  That  was  what  I  had 
to  come  home  to  when  my  day's  work  was  done 
and  I  was  ready  to  drop  with  weariness  and  de- 
spair. And  here  again  the  cause  of  my  worst  suf- 
fering didn't  lie  on  the  surface;  it  was  because 
I  couldn't  think  only  of  her  and  her  suffering.  I 
couldn't  get  my  own  wrongs  out  of  my  mind.  I 

136 


The  Spider  and  the  Fly 

had  to  do  a  good  deal  of  the  housework  when  I 
came  home.  The  neighbors  came  in  often,  but 
not  in  any  systematic  way.  There  were  times 
when  I  had  to  cook  her  supper  and  my  own,  going 
to  her  room  a  score  of  times  to  ask  how  to  do 
things.  You  see  what  a  mean  sort  of  story  it 
comes  down  to  at  last?  And  then  it  all  ended." 

He  paused  and  passed  his  hand  across  his 
haggard  face,  as  if  words  couldn't  be  made  to 
reach.  Then  with  new  resolution  he  concluded : 

"One  morning  I  left  her  room  grumbling,  chid- 
ing her,  because  she  had  complained  hopelessly 
after  I  had  done  all  that  I  could  for  her.  I  left 
her  with  a  harsh  word.  .  .  .  And  that  night 
when  I  came  home  she  was  dead.  She  had  died 
alone.  She  had  been  dead  for  hours.  She  lay 
there  in  the  dark  room,  silent  in  a  new,  terrible 
way.  Her  eyes  were  open  when  I  made  a  light. 
And  I  could  only  sink  to  my  knees  beside  her  and 
reach  for  her  hand  and  cry  out — again  and  again 
— 'I  didn't  mean  it  this  morning,  mother — I  didn't 
mean  it!'  And  then  little  by  little  I  realized  that 
I  must  go  out  and  summon  the  women  in  the  neigh- 
borhood." 


Chapter  XVI 
The  Weaving  of  the  Web 

THE  cashier  at  her  desk  aroused  herself — 
she  had  been  lost  in  a  public-library  book — 
long  enough  to  turn  on  the  lights. 

The  change  afforded  a  not  unwelcome  break  in 
the  stressful  moment  which  had  gripped  both  Es- 
tabrook  and  Cape  at  their  table.  Both  men  glanced 
up  and  seemed  for  the  moment  to  forget  the  tale 
that  Cape  had  told.  Then  Estabrook,  without 
venturing  to  look  at  his  companion,  whose  closing 
words  had  been  uttered  with  difficulty,  remarked 
evenly — 

"The  first  big  burden  that  was  ever  put  upon 
you  was  too  heavy — that  was  what  was  wrong. 
You'd  have  come  through  well  enough  if  you 
hadn't  been  overtaxed.  You've  no  cause  to  be 
really  discouraged  because  of  such  a  defeat — if 
you  care  to  think  of  it  as  a  defeat." 

But  Cape  obviously  took  no  relief  from  the 
friendly  words.  When  Estabrook  glanced  at  him 
presently  he  was  resting  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
and  his  face,  supported  by  his  hands,  expressed 
only  a  dull  despair. 

138 


The  Weaving  of  the  Web 

"And — your  uncle?"  ventured  Estabrook  at 
last. 

"My  uncle — unfortunately,  the  story  has  to 
come  back  to  him.  It  was  still  a  good  while  before 
I  heard  anything  about  him;  and  then  a  bit  of 
news  came  quite  by  accident.  He  was  here — here 
in  this  city.  He  was  seen  and  located  by  chance 
by  a  man  I'd  been  working  for.  And  he  kept  the 
matter  a  secret,  except  that  he  told  me.  He 
thought  I'd  know  what  I  ought  to  do,  or  what  I'd 
want  to  do." 

"That  would  have  seemed  the  proper  course," 
remarked  Estabrook. 

"I  suppose  so — if  it  had  been  anybody  but  me. 
But  I  couldn't  decide  what  to  do.  Have  my  uncle 
arrested  and  perhaps  punished  as  a  defaulter? 
That  would  only  have  seemed  to  drag  my  mother's 
name  through  the  mire.  At  least,  it  couldn't  have 
helped  her.  And  for  the  time  being  I  didn't 
think  of  myself  or  of  my  own  wrongs.  My  wrongs, 
compared  with  my  mother's,  seemed  too  small  to 
consider.  They  didn't  seem  to  exist — for  a  time. 
It  was  only  little  by  little  that  I  began  to  think  in 
a  definite  way — toward  a  definite  conclusion — of 
my  uncle.  It  took  me  a  whole  year  to  get  my  mind 
at  all  straight  as  to  what  his  real  responsibility 
was.  And  during  that  year  I  kept  at  my  work.  I 
went  to  live  with  a  neighbor.  Our  home  wasn't 
ours  any  more,  by  this  time.  I  mean,  it  wasn't 
mine.  I  was  really  at  home  in  the  neighbor's 

139 


Whispers 

house.  And  I  kept  at  work  until  I  had  paid  off 
my  debts.  The  doctor,  you  understand,  and — and 
all  the  rest.  There  were  a  lot  of  them :  the  drug- 
gist and  the  grocer;  and  there  was  a  little  stone  to 
be  paid  for.  And  when  the  spring  came  I  planted 
flowers  where  the  stone  was,  and  I  got  to  think- 
ing of  her — of  my  mother,  I  mean — as  being  at 
rest  and  happy.  And  then — then  I  came  here." 

"You  came  here  because  your  uncle  was  here?" 

Cape  frowned.  "That  must  have  been  the 
reason,"  he  said.  "I  hadn't  any  other  reason  for 
coming  here,  more  than  to  any  other  city." 

"That  was  reason  enough.  And — did  you  see 
your  uncle?" 

Again  Cape  frowned,  and  for  a  time  he  seemed 
unable  or  unwilling  to  continue. 

Estabrook  broke  in  upon  him  with  seeming  im- 
petuosity. "But  there,"  he  said,  "I  know  I  seem 
to  be  prying.  You  mustn't  tell  me  anything  more 
than  you  like  to  tell.  If  I  seem  unduly  interested 
I  hope  you'll  not  forget  that  I'm  really  anxious 
to  be  of  help  to  you." 

"I  did  see  him,"  said  Cape.  "I  saw  him  sev- 
eral times.  I  went  to  his — to  where  he  worked. 
But  he  didn't  know  me.  He  really  didn't.  And 
I  tried  to  form  a  plan  of  some  sort  .  .  ." 

"You  could  make  him  give  you  what  was  your 
mother's,  if  he's  got  it  yet,"  said  Estabrook. 

But  Cape  only  murmured  absently:  "He's  got 
nothing  now." 

140 


The  Weaving  of  the  Web 

A  beam  came  and  went  in  Estabrook's  eyes. 
If  old  Drumm  were  the  monster  of  Cape's  story 
— and  to  this  theory  he  held  unflinchingly — how 
apt  were  the  words,  "He's  got  nothing  now" ! 

And  then  Cape  looked  at  his  companion  with 
sudden  purposefulness.  "There's  more  to  the 
story,"  he  said  in  a  voice  which  had  become  firm. 
"But  I'll  not  tell  it.  At  least  not  now."  He  added 
cautiously,  "There  are  some  rather  unpleasant 
details.  Perhaps  another  time,  when  we're  sure 
of  not  being  interrupted " 

"I'm  sure  you're  right,"  said  Estabrook.  "I 
shouldn't  want  you  to  tell  me  unless  you  thought 
perhaps  it  might  help  in  some  way;  and  as  you 
suggest,  there  might  be  interruptions  here."  His 
manner  was  that  of  one  who  pulls  down  the  lid  of 
a  desk  upon  unfinished  business,  shutting  it  wholly 
within.  "The  important  thing,"  he  added,  "is  for 
you  to  take  a  hopeful  view  of  the  future.  You 
must  just  grasp  the  fact  that  what's  ended  is  ended 
and  that  your  chief  concern  is  with  what  lies 
ahead." 

He  was  glad  of  the  pause  which  ensued;  for 
presently  there  were  steps  on  the  stairway  and 
Beakman  and  his  companion  appeared  from  the 
rooms  above.  Again  they  took  in  the  two  solitary 
diners  as  if  with  a  certain  mild  amusement,  and 
then  they  approached  the  cashier's  desk  and  mani- 
fested an  unmistakable  intention  of  idling. 

It  seemed  to  Estabrook,  too,  that  nothing  more 
141 


^Whispers 

timely  could  have  occurred  than  that  Cape  should 
have  said  at  that  moment — 

"I  haven't  asked  you  how  you've  been  faring. 
You  see  how  wrapped  up  in  myself  I  am !  I  seem 
to  have  taken  it  for  granted  that  you'd  prosper." 

Estabrook's  laughter  was  so  natural  that  Beak- 
man  could  scarcely  have  suspected  it  was  meant 
to  cover  anything,  nor  did  it  at  all  surprise  Cape. 
"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "you're  the  first  indi- 
vidual who  has  asked  me  a  question  since  I've 
registered  at  Madam  Joan's?  I  seem  to  have 
been  doing  all  the  questioning  myself!  But  I'm 
glad  you're  interested.  Yes,  I  think  I've  pros- 
pered, in  a  very  modest  way.  I  found  a  place  to 
work  to-day,  at  least." 

"And  so  you'll  not  try  to  carry  out  your 
plan- 
But  Estabrook  interrupted.  "That  imaginary 
scheme  I  outlined  to  you?  Well,  in  a  way  that's 
the  sort  of  work  I'm  going  to  do.  I'm  to  collect 
information  of  a  sort  and  turn  it  in  to  a  corpora- 
tion which  makes  a  business  of  handling  informa- 
tipn." 

"Information?"  echoed  Cape,  vaguely  troubled. 

"I  began  work  only  to-day  and  so  I've  not  got- 
ten very  deeply  into  it.  I'll  be  able  to  tell  you 
more  about  it  another  time." 

"But  at  least  it's  settled  that  you'll  not  be  going 
away?" 

"Not  for  a  time.  Though  my  chief  object  i» 
142 


The  Weaving  of  the  Web 

life  is  to  go  away  before  very  long  and  tackle  a 
job  I've  made  for  myself  a  long  distance  from 
here." 

"Won't  you  tell  me  about  that?"  asked  Cape; 
and  his  tone  and  eyes  betrayed  the  fact  that  to  go 
away  a  long  distance  seemed  to  him  just  then  the 
most  desirable  thing  a  man  might  do. 

"Of  course! — though  it's  a  rather  common- 
place story,  I'm  afraid.  It  concerns  two  partner- 
ships. The  first  is  with  a  young  fellow  who  per- 
suaded me  to  go  down  into  the  oil  belt  in  Texas 
with  him  more  than  a  year  ago.  We  went  into  a 
sort  of  bonanza  town  and  started  a  little  news- 
paper. Our  idea  was  to  grow  up  with  the  town 
and  own  a  fine  property  when  it  became  a  city." 

"And  didn't  the  town  grow?" 

"Yes,  it  grew  rapidly  enough.  And  my  part- 
ner and  I  did  well  enough  in  a  way.  But  we  were 
permitted  to  accept  certain  oil  stocks  in  lieu  of 
cash  for  much  of  our  work;  and  a  time  came  when 
we  had  too  much  stock  and  too  little  money — and 
so  it  fell  to  my  lot  to  get  out  and  find  a  job  some- 
where, so  that  my  partner  could  keep  the  business 
going." 

"You  mean  that  the  stocks  weren't  worth  any- 
thing?" 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that — though  perhaps  a 
good  part  of  them  were  useless.  We'll  not  know 
for  a  long  time  what  some  of  them  are  worth. 
What  we  do  know  is  that  the  town  is  growing 

143 


Whispers 

beyond  all  expectation;  that  we've  got  the  first 
and  best  daily  paper  in  it,  and  that  if  we  can  hold 
on  we'll  come  in  for  a  lot  of  unearned  increment 
some  day  and  be  fixed  for  life.  But  in  the  mean- 
time the  venture  doesn't  quite  carry  itself — by 
reason  of  those  payments  in  stock — and  so  it  re- 
mains for  me  to  supply  a  little  real  money  at  inter- 
vals. The  plant  made  enough  to  pay  our  printer 
and  the  other  larger  expenses.  All  I've  got  to  do 
is  to  raise  enough  to  pay  a  reporter." 

He  laughed  again;  and  glancing  casually  at 
Beakman  and  the  other  News  man,  he  noted  that 
they  were  preparing  to  depart. 

"And  the  other  partnership?"  prompted  Cape; 
"you  know  you  spoke  of  two." 

"The  forming  of  the  second  partnership  hasn't 
been  quite  completed  yet.  Its  permanent  forma- 
tion depends  upon  the  success  of  the  first  partner- 
ship." 

He  smiled  significantly;  and  Cape,  with  a 
slightly  embarrassed  yet  pleased  expression,  put 
in  by  way  of  interpretation — "I  think  you  mean 
that  the  second  partnership  means — marriage?" 

"That's  it!"  said  Estabrook;  and  so  it  hap- 
pened that  there  was  real  gaiety  in  his  eyes  when 
Beakman  and  his  companion  finally  took  their  de- 
parture. And  then  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
lost  in  reflection,  though  he  was  not  thinking  of 
either  of  the  two  partnerships  he  had  just  spoken 
of.  He  was  making  a  new  appraisal  of  the  char- 

144 


The  Weaving  of  the  Web 

acter  of  his  companion;  he  was  trying  to  decide 
how  he  might  best  succeed  in  winning  the  full  con- 
fidence of  this  luckless  youth  who  had  told  him 
much,  and  yet  so  little. 

He  had  nothing  for  the  moment  to  do  save  to 
camp  on  Cape's  trail — to  employ  the  language  of 
his  trade.  But  Cape  was  not  yet  ready  to  tell  him 
everything.  Their  acquaintanceship  needed  fuller 
developing.  And  Estabrook  entertained  the 
theory  that  a  completer  acquaintanceship  might  be 
developed  best,  not  by  one  or  two  long  interviews, 
but  by  a  number  of  briefer  meetings.  Cape  needed 
to  feel  the  impetus  of  loneliness.  His  source  of 
supply — of  congenial  companionship — needed  to 
be  shut  off  again  and  again. 

He  arose  briskly.  "I  ought  to  be  going,"  he 
said.  "You'll  understand  that  I've  a  good  deal 
of  work  ahead  of  me?  But  I'm  awfully  glad  to 
have  had  this  chance  to  talk  to  you."  He  seemed 
on  the  point  of  turning  away;  and  then,  as  if  by 
an  afterthought,  he  hesitated.  "By  the  way,"  he 
added,  "I'll  be  coming  in  at  about  eleven  to-night. 
If  you  haven't  gone  to  bed  by  that  time  I'd  be 
glad  to  hold  another  little  session  with  you — that 
is,  if  you  think  it  wouldn't  bore  you.  You  see,  I'm 
inclined  to  feel  rather  lonesome  myself!" 

Cape's  face  flushed  faintly.  "Bore  me!"  he 
said;  "if  you  only  knew " 

"Then  I'll  look  for  you  at  eleven  o'clock,"  said 
Estabrook  briskly.  "And  if  you  don't  mind,  in 

145 


Whispers 

my  room.     That'll  be  ever  so  much  more  com- 
fortable than  here — don't  you  think?" 

On  the  street  a  few  minutes  later  he  experi- 
enced much  the  same  sensations  which  a  lawyer 
feels  when  he  has  been  defending  a  client  whom  he 
knows  to  be  guilty,  or  prosecuting  a  prisoner 
whom  he  believes  to  be  innocent.  There  were 
certain  phases  of  his  profession  which  were  al- 
ways disagreeable  at  best;  it  was  the  sum  of  his 
work  which  he  liked  and  believed  in,  not  all  its 
details.  And  just  now  he  felt  that  depressing 
sense  of  social  isolation  which  is  known  to  all 
newspaper  men  who  are  working  far  from  home, 
when  they  have  leisure  hours  at  their  disposal. 

His  judgment  as  to  Cape  was  that  the  young 
fellow  was  no  more  vicious  than  a  lamb.  He  had 
been  ill-trained;  he  had  been  fearfully  wronged. 
And  at  some  time,  somehow,  he  had  been  beside 
himself — and  in  that  moment  the  shameless  old 
creature,  Drumm,  had  come  to  his  death. 

Estabrook's  purpose  was  to  bring  fully  to  light 
Cape's  part  in  the  affair.  He  had  other  purposes, 
too,  touching  the  young  man;  but  these,  for  the 
time  being,  he  would  have  admitted  to  no  one. 
He  would  have  denied,  however,  that  he  was  deal- 
ing treacherously  with  Cape.  His  intention,  he 
would  have  maintained,  was  quite  the  contrary. 
And  as  he  sauntered  through  the  lighted  streets 

146 


The  Weaving  of  the  Web 

his  mind  was  a  strange  compound  of  the  alert 
newspaper  man  and  the  Good  Samaritan. 

He  came  presently  before  a  shop  which  pre- 
sented certain  familiar  aspects,  and  here  he  paused. 
It  was  the  second-hand  shop  which  had  previously 
attracted  his  attention,  when  he  had  turned  away 
from  his  inspection  of  the  scene  where  Pheneas 
Drumm  had  died.  And  now  a  nebulous  fancy  took 
definite  form  in  his  mind,  and  he  turned  into  the 
shop.  For  a  time  he  engaged  the  proprietor  in 
conversation;  and  finally  it  was  with  a  kind  of 
shame-faced  air  that  he  made  a  purchase,  emerg- 
ing upon  the  street  a  little  later  with  an  awkwardly 
shaped  parcel  in  his  hands. 

With  his  newly-acquired  possession,  securely 
wrapped,  he  returned  to  his  room  at  Madam 
Joan's — going  in  by  the  front  entrance  on  this  oc- 
casion, and  taking  the  elevator.  And  when  he 
had  closed  his  door  behind  him  he  quietly  turned 
the  key. 

For  the  next  half-hour  a  series  of  weird  and 
mysterious  sounds  arose  in  his  room — sounds  so 
extraordinary,  in  fact,  that  an  occupant  of  the 
next  room  listened  for  a  time  with  palpitating 
heart,  and  then  descended  to  the  floor  beneath  to 
report  to  Madam  Joan  that  he  feared  he  had 
been  given  a  maniac  for  a  next-door  neighbor. 

Yet  when  Madam  Joan,  smiling  indulgently, 
mounted  the  stairs  and  tapped  softly  at  Esta- 
brook's  door,  she  found  nothing  at  all  to  justify 

147 


Whispers 

suspicion  or  complaint.  Estabrook  was  seated  at 
a  table,  writing  a  letter.  There  were  no  other 
persons  in  the  room  with  him.  And  Madam 
turned  to  the  complaining  roomer  with  the  sug- 
gestion that  Monsieur  must  have  had  a  bad 
dream. 


148 


Chapter  XVII 

The  Fly  Appears 

HE  spent  the  whole  evening  in  his  room, 
though  he  had  not  planned  to  do  so.  His 
letter-writing  held  him  an  hour  or  so,  and  then 
he  lapsed  into  a  dreamy  mood  during  which  many 
pleasant  aspects  of  his  two  partnerships — of 
which  he  had  spoken  to  Cape — passed  before  his 
vision;  and  then  he  thought  long  of  Cape  and  his 
unfortunate  plight.  When  at  last  he  felt  the  im- 
pulse to  stir  he  looked  at  his  watch  and  saw  that 
it  was  after  ten  o'clock — and  then  he  would  not 
go  away  lest  by  chance  he  might  miss  Cape. 

Upon  second  thought  he  was  glad  enough  not 
to  stir  abroad.  He  was  getting  a  more  intimate, 
a  deeper,  impression  of  Madam  Joan's  strange 
hostelry;  and  this  impression  was  tending  strongly 
to  produce  a  mood  well  adapted  to  confidences 
and  reminiscences  and  the  other  intimacies  of  con- 
versation. All  about  him  a  sort  of  eloquent  silence 
had  begun  to  reign,  broken  only  vaguely  by  whis- 
pered or  murmuring  voices  and  faltering  foot- 
steps, or  by  the  infrequent  ascent  and  descent  of 
the  elevator.  Something  which  he  took  to  be 

149 


Whispers 

an  essence  of  the  house's  long  years  of  furtive- 
ness  and  intrigue  and  shallow  solitude  seemed  to 
permeate  the  air.  His  surroundings  seemed  to 
him  eloquent  of  tragedy  in  a  way:  of  fading 
youth,  burnt  by  a  too  ardent  flame;  of  pathetic 
age,  struggling  against  discovery  or  betrayal,  of 
false  quests,  of  wastage. 

The  noises  of  the  city  seemed  very  far  away — 
like  sounds  heard  during  the  hours  of  slumber. 
They  seemed,  too,  meaningless  and  futile.  In- 
deed, it  was  only  by  a  vigorous  effort  that  he  re- 
minded himself  that  he  was  in  a  wrong  place  in 
which  to  form  a  true  estimate  of  life's  values  and 
tendencies,  and  that  his  two  partnerships,  both  of 
which  were  hopefully  rosy,  were  calling  him,  and 
that  real  work  lay  ahead  of  him — when  Cape 
came  to  keep  his  appointment. 

And  then,  rather  shyly  yet  eagerly,  Cape  kept 
that  appointment.  There  was  a  tap  on  the  door 
and  Cape  stood  on  the  threshold. 

Estabrook  gave  only  an  instant  to  the  reflection 
that  the  other  man's  manner  was  like  that  of  one 
who  comes  from  a  region  of  storm  and  darkness 
into  a  warm  place.  And  then  he  said,  cordially, 
yet  without  too  much  eagerness — uAh,  I'm  glad 
to  see  you!  I've  been  here  by  myself  just  long 
enough  to  realize  that  I  don't  like  Madame  Joan's 
very  well.  Sit  down!" 

"What  have  you  been  finding  wrong  with 
Madam  Joan's?"  asked  Cape.  He  sat  down, 

150 


The  Fly  Appears 

obviously  ill  at  ease ;  yet  his  relief  at  finding  com- 
panionship was  evident  enough. 

"Well,  it  has  seemed  for  the  past  hour  or  so 
like  a  place  of  hiding.  That's  been  my  idea. 
And  I  like  to  think  of  life — everything  that  goes 
to  make  up  our  life,  almost — as  a  thing  to  be  re- 
vealed. I  have  an  Idea  that  when  we  yield  to 
the  tendency  to  do  things  furtively — to  hide  our 
actions  or  our  thoughts — we're  harking  back  to 
our  cave-man  instincts :  when  the  basis  of  life  was 
thought  to  be  enmity  rather  than  the  wish  to 
help." 

Cape  frowned  in  perplexity.  "But  isn't  enmity 
a  basis  of  life  still?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course  not!  It's  a  disease.  It's  like  mea- 
sles and  such  things  with  some  of  us — a  thing 
which  we  pass  through  without  much  difficulty.  It 
becomes  a  chronic  ailment  with  a  few.  But  that's 
because  they  haven't  had  the  right  attention — 
or  because  they  are  constitutionally  weak.  No, 
fear  of  one  another — and  that's  all  that  enmity 
is — is  one  of  the  delusions  which  we  must  all 
conquer  sooner  or  later  if  we're  to  get  anywhere." 

Cape's  glance  was  bent  upon  the  floor.  The 
frown  of  perplexity  on  his  face  gave  place  to  a 
wan  smile.  Presently  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  Esta- 
brook's.  "You're  an  odd  chap!"  he  said  nerv- 
ously; and  then — "I  wonder  if  the  things  you  say 
are  just  a  theory — if  you  believe  in  them  only  in 


Whispers 

a  sort  of  academic  way — or  if  you  really  live 
them  when  a  real  test  comes!" 

"I  live  them,"  returned  Estabrook;  and  he 
added  invitingly,  "Won't  you  move  your  chair 
a  little  closer? — I  know  I  don't  always  make 
myself  heard  very  well." 

It  was  the  first  reference  he  had  made  to  Cape 
of  His  infirmity;  and  his  words,  uttered  with  a 
singular  simplicity  of  manner,  served  to  draw  the 
other  man  suddenly  closer  to  him  in  liking  and 
faith. 

"I'm  sure  it's  fine,"  said  Cape;  "and  yet  I  can't 
help  thinking  there  must  be  a  lot  of  things  you've 
never  experienced,  or  you  wouldn't  believe  that 
all  of  life — that  it  ought  to  be  revealed,  as  you 
said."  Then  he  suddenly  clasped  his  hands 
together  with  painful  intensity.  "Why,  man, 
there  are  circumstances  in  which  one  couldn't  fol- 
low your  plan  without  inviting  ruin — without  being 
actually  destroyed."  He  was  now  kneading  his 
hands  nervously;  he  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair; 
and  then — most  helpless  manifestation  of  all — 
he  tried  to  smile  into  Estabrook's  face,  and  the 
smile  degenerated  into  a  grimace  of  agony. 

"You're  leaving  me  in  the  dark,"  said  Esta- 
brook gently.  "I  like  to  stick  to  principles.  It's 
the  safest  way.  And  you're  probably  thinking 
of  some  special  case  which — if  you'll  pardon  me 
— you  may  be  looking  at  from  a  wrong  angle." 

"I'm  thinking  of  my  own  case!"  exclaimed 
152 


The  Fly  Appears 

Cape,  in  a  tone  which  implied  that  his  statement 
constituted  an  irrefutable  argument.  "And  I  sup- 
pose a  man's  own  case  is  the  most  important  thing 
in  the  world — to  him?" 

"Yes,  if  he  can  look  at  it  in  the  right  way." 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Cape  hopelessly,  "I'm  think- 
ing of  something  I  have  done.  Something  that 
can't  be  undone.  Something  that  has  utterly 
ruined  all  my  prospects.  You  see,  fine  theories 
become  nothing  but — but  fine  theories,  when  you 
confront  them  with  actual  conditions." 

"No;  actual  conditions  become  wholly  differ- 
ent matters  when  you  confront  them  with  really 
fine  theories!" 

Cape  was  lifting  his  hand  almost  rhythmically 
and  letting  it  fall  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair.  His 
glance,  like  that  of  a  starving  man,  rested  upon 
vacancy.  And  suddenly  he  exclaimed  helplessly: 
"My  uncle — I'm  thinking  of  that  story  I  told  you, 
of  my  mother  and  the  rest,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"The  last  time  I  encountered  my  uncle  here  I 
— I  harmed  him." 

"Well?"  inquired  Estabrook  calmly. 

"I  tell  you  I  harmed  him — irreparably." 

Estabrook  reflected.  "For  the  moment,"  he 
said,  "I'll  put  aside  the  point  that  there  might  be 
various  ways  of  interpreting  that  expression. 
Sometimes  when  we  harm  persons,  in  a  popular 
conception  of  that  word,  we  are  really  conferring 

153 


Whispers 

a  blessing  upon  them — perhaps  a  blessing  in  dis- 
guise. But  let  us  concede  that  you  harmed  your 
uncle.  You  must  consider:  he  had  greatly  harmed 
you  and  your  mother.  You  were  greatly  pro- 
voked. If  you  really  harmed  him  you  erred;  but 
under  all  the  circumstances,  does  it  seem  impos- 
sible to  you  that  you  should  be  forgiven?  That 
you  should  forgive  yourself?  That  others  should 
forgive  you?" 

The  rhythmic  beat  of  Cape's  hand  on  his  chair- 
arm  ended.  "I  might  forgive  myself,"  he  said,  "but 
— there  is  the  question  of  the  law.  The  law  isn't 
a  system  of  ethics,  you  know.  It's  a  set  of  rules. 
And  the  law — if  it's  what  it  purports  to  be — 
couldn't  be  expected  to  concern  itself  with  for- 
giveness. It  can  only  say  in  an  entirely  detached 
way,  'You  are  innocent,'  or  'You  are  guilty.'  And 
in  my  case — from  the  standpoint  of  the  law — I  am 
guilty." 

But  even  this  seemingly  formidable  conclusion 
did  not  seem  to  perturb  Estabrook.  "Very  well, 
then,"  he  said,  "let  us  concede  that  you  are 
guilty.  That's  nothing  at  all  unusual.  You  must 
just  set  about  putting  yourself  right!" 

There  were  traces  of  exasperation  in  Cape's 
manner  when  he  spoke  again.  "Suppose  I  had 
burned  my  uncle's  house  down,"  he  said.  "Sup- 
pose everything  he  possessed  had  gone  up  in  the 
flames.  Can  you  imagine  my  'putting  myself  right' 
on  top  of  that?" 

154 


The  Fly  Appears 

Estabrook  arose  deliberately  and  walked  to 
the  other  end  of  the  room,  where  he  took  a  pack 
of  cigarettes  from  a  table.  He  was  lighting  a 
cigarette  when  he  returned  to  his  chair.  He  blew 
a  cloud  of  smoke  toward  the  ceiling  before  he 
said,  "I  believe  we  began  our  talk,  when  you  came 
in,  along  wholly  impersonal  lines.  We  seem  to 
have  brought  it  around  to  something  like  a  per- 
sonal basis."  He  smiled  whimsically.  "You  know 
I  really  haven't  put  out  that  shingle  with  the  words 
Public  Adviser  on  it." 

"I  know,"  returned  Cape,  suddenly  forlorn  and 
adrift  again.  "But — well,  I  can't  help  seeing 
that  what  you  said  about  advising  people  was 
true;  about  the  disinterested  person  keeping  his 
head  clear  and  being  able  to  see  things  in  the 
right  way.  I  hoped  perhaps — -yet  no,  I  didn't 
really  hope  you  could  help  me.  Yet  it  did  seem 
a  relief  to  talk  things  over  with  you." 

"Very  well,"  said  Estabrook  briskly.  "Let's 
talk  things  over.  But  why  not  be  quite  frank? 
If  I'm  to  aid  you  at  all  you  ought  not  to  fear  to 
trust  me.  Please  take  my  word  for  that.  You 
know — you  really  didn't  burn  your  uncle's  house 
down!"  He  was  smiling  almost  tauntingly. 

"But  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  was  that  I  did." 

"Very  well.  Though  I  can't  help  feeling  sorry. 
To  get  back  to  generalities  again,  I  repeat  what 
I  said  before :  I  like  to  think  of  life  as  a  thing  to 
be  revealed.  I  have  an  idea  that  when  we  yield 

155 


Whispers 

to  the  tendency  to  do  things  furtively — tc  hide 
our  actions  and  our  thoughts — we're  harking  back 
to  our  cave-man  instincts;  to  the  time  when  the 
basis  of  life  was  thought  to  be  enmity  rather  than 
the  wish  to  help." 

He  seemed  to  be  withdrawing  from  his  com- 
panion then;  withdrawing  his  interests  and  with 
them  his  sympathy.  He  observed  that  Cape  was 
struggling  with  himself.  But  he  seemed  to  be  un- 
aware of  this.  He  appeared  to  be  yielding  to 
the  rather  mysterious  spell  of  Madam  Joan's 
house ;  to  heed  the  far-off,  obscure  sounds,  to  feel 
the  throbbing  of  all  the  troubled  hearts  which 
had  come  and  gone  since  the  house  was  founded. 

And  little  by  little  it  seemed  that  he  was  actu- 
ally casting  the  weight  of  these  sensations  upon 
his  companion  too.  Cape  had  sunk  into  an  al- 
most collapsed,  beaten  attitude;  yet  his  eyes  told 
the  tale  of  a  soul  which  was  struggling  through 
deep  waters  toward  a  place  of  rescue. 

As  neither  spoke  for  a  long  interval  another 
intangible  force  made  itself  felt  in  the  room:  the 
force  of  a  charged  silence.  It  changed  from  a 
passive — a  negative — force,  to  an  active,  positive 
force.  It  seemed  to  hum  and  then  to  roar,  as  if 
the  old  house  had  a  departed  soul  which  had  come 
back  in  agony.  Estabrook  suddenly  sat  erect  as 
if  with  a  vague  alarm,  and  his  companion  followed 
his  example. 

156 


"What  is  it?"  asked  Cape;  and  he  was  whisper- 
ing now. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Estabrook.  He  produced 
his  pack  of  cigarettes.  There  was  only  one  ciga- 
rette left.  This  he  took  out.  He  also  felt  in  his 
pocket  for  a  box  of  Swedish  matches.  As  he  was 
about  to  open  the  box  a  little  accident  occurred. 
The  box  slipped  from  his  fingers  and  fell  at  his 
guest's  feet.  The  matches  lay  scattered  on  the 
carpet. 

Cape  stooped  quickly  and  began  to  replace  the 
matches  in  the  box;  and  as  he  did  so  Estabrook 
turned  warily  and  opened  the  upper  compartment 
of  the  wardrobe  near  him.  He  touched  something 
within  the  compartment  and  then  closed  the  door 
again  so  that  it  remained  barely  an  inch  ajar. 
Then  he  stooped  beside  his  guest  and  helped  in 
picking  up  the  matches  which  still  remained  on 
the  carpet. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  as  he  received  the  box 
from  the  other's  hands.  He  noticed  that  Cape's 
fingers  were  trembling  slightly.  Then  as  if  sud- 
denly recollecting,  he  said,  "I  ought  to  step  down 
and  get  another  pack  of  cigarettes  before  I  for- 
get. I  may  want  them  later.  If  you'll  excuse 
me ?"  And  immediately  he  was  gone. 

To  Cape,  remaining  alone,  the  tumult  of  the 
silence  seemed  to  become  intensified.  In  the  still- 
ness in  which  there  was  no  distinct  sound,  all  the 
sounds  of  the  world  seemed  to  crowd  in  upon  him. 

157 


Whispers 

And  presently  he  realized  that  one  of  the  name- 
less sounds  he  heard  was  not  really  nameless, 
though  he  felt  it,  rather  than  heard  it.  His  heart 
was  pounding  like  a  little  drum  under  a  sure,  firm 
touch.  He  regretted  that  Estabrook  had  closed 
the  door  of  the  room  when  he  went  out.  And  then 
he  realized  anew  that  for  him,  until  the  end  of 
time,  the  one  most  sinister  horror  of  all  would 
be  to  be  alone  anywhere,  and  that  the  roaring 
sound  which  would  not  depart  from  him  was  the 
voice  of  conscience. 

He  clasped  his  trembling  hands.  "If  I  could 
only  tell  him!"  was  his  thought.  "If  I  could 
only  tell  anyone! " 

He  could  not  have  explained  why  the  crying 
need  of  his  nature  at  that  moment  was  to  confide 
to  some  broad  and  sympathetic  mind  the  full  story 
of  his  disaster.  Yet  the  words  repeated  them- 
selves in  his  brain — "If  I  could  only  tell  him !" 

And  then  a  definite  sound  assaulted  his  ears 
and  he  sprang  from  his  chair,  his  body  shrinking 
as  from  the  hand  of  the  hangman.  He  felt  his 
scalp  move.  A  voice,  husky  and  low,  yet  intense 
and  penetrating,  had  whispered  to  him.  It  was 
the  voice  of  the  man  who  had  just  gone  out  and 
closed  the  door;  and  the  words  it  uttered  were: 
"Tell  him  everything!" 

He  cowered  for  an  instant  and  then  he  tried  to 
combat  his  terrors.  He  was  the  victim  of  a  trick 
of  some  sort — that  must  be  it.  Estabrook  must 

158 


The  Fly  Appears 

have  slipped  back  into  the  room.  He  must  have 
re-entered  by  some  other  door. 

He  looked  about  him  narrowly,  his  body 
strained  in  every  nerve  and  muscle.  There  was 
no  other  door.  And  the  one  door  was  closed  and 
had  not  been  moved  since  his  late  companion  had 
passed  out  of  it. 

There  was  only  one  place  in  the  room  where  a 
man  might  possibly  hide.  He  stepped  to  the  large 
cabinet  against  the  wall,  only  a  step  away.  He 
opened  the  door  of  it  with  fingers  which  seemed 
half  paralyzed.  It  was  empty  save  for  a  few 
hooks,  ready  to  receive  the  roomer's  garments. 
The  little  upper  compartment  he  disregarded. 

Bewilderment  gave  place  to  a  sharper  alarm. 
There  must  be  some  explanation  of  the  matter. 
Voices  did  not  come  from  nowhere;  and  he  did 
not  believe  that  he  had  become  so  unstrung  that 
conscience  or  imagination  would  play  sheer  tricks 
upon  him.  He  stepped  hastily  to  the  door  and 
opened  it. 

Estabrook  was  there  in  the  distance,  waiting  for 
the  return  of  the  elevator,  which  had  just  passed 
slowly  upward.  He  was  smoking  his  last  cigarette 
with  a  sort  of  quiet  intensity. 

The  distressed  youth  did  not  close  the  door 
again  until  the  elevator  had  returned  and  Esta- 
brook had  stepped  into  it  and  disappeared.  Yet 
he  had  stood  where  he  should  not  be  seen.  He 
did  not  wish  Estabrook  to  know  that  he  had 

159 


Whispers 

watched  him,  or  to  guess  that  he  had  been  alarmed. 
Then  he  closed  the  door  softly  and  returned  to 
his  chair. 

But  he  was  no  sooner  seated  than  he  started 
up  again.  His  hands  came  together  in  an  an- 
guish of  alarm.  Again  that  whispering  voice  spoke 
to  him.  Again  it  enunciated  the  three  words,  in- 
tensely, yet  with  an  odd  effect  of  detachment. 

"Tell  him  everything!" 

He  hurried  toward  the  door,  looking  back 
appalled  toward  the  interior  of  the  room.  His 
reason  was  trying  to  gain  the  ascendancy  over  his 
emotions,  over  those  weaknesses  which  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  reason.  And  at  length,  greatly  to 
his  relief,  he  heard  the  rumble  of  the  elevator  on 
its  upward  journey.  He  heard  it  stop  and  its 
gates  swing  open.  And  then  Estabrook  re-entered 
the  room. 

"Strange!"  breathed  Cape,  when  the  door  was 
carefully  closed.  "I  thought  I  heard  you  speak- 
ing, after  you  had  gone  away." 

"Perhaps  you  did!"  said  the  other,  smiling 
faintly.  "You  see,  I  was  thinking  about  you  in- 
tently while  I  was  gone." 

"But  you  didn't  speak?" 

'No,  I  didn't  speak." 

He  sat  down  leisurely  and  continued  to  smile, 
faintly  yet  reassuringly.  And  he  evinced  no  sur- 
prise at  all  when  Cape,  facing  him  with  something 
very  akin  to  new  strength,  said:  "I  came  to  a  de- 

1 60 


The  Fly  Appears 

cision  while  you  were  gone.     I "     He  chose 

his  words  and  then  added,  as  if  the  form  of  his 
utterance  were  wholly  his  own.  "I'm  going  to 
tell  you  everything!" 

And  Estabrook,  nodding  thoughtfully,  replied: 
"That's  good.  That's  what  I  thought  perhaps 
you'd  decide  to  do." 


161 


Chapter  XVIII 
The  Fly  Enters 

E  STAB  ROOK  smoked  tranquilly  a  moment, 
as  if  he  were  thinking  only  of  the  deep 
satisfaction  of  the  smoke.  But  presently  he 
glanced  from  the  burning  end  of  his  cigarette  to 
the  eyes  of  the  man  who  sat  opposite  him.  His 
glance  was  one  of  friendly  reassurance  and  invi- 
tation. 

"I  have  told  you  a  good  deal  about  my  uncle," 
began  Cape.  "But  the  only  thing  that  really 

counted "     He  leaned  forward,  his  elbows 

on  his  knees,  his  hands  clasped.  "I  didn't  tell 
you  that  in  my  last  encounter  with  my  uncle  I — I 
killed  him." 

As  he  uttered  the  words  he  did  not  resort  to 
the  kind  of  theatrical  mannerism  which  might 
have  accompanied  the  announcement.  There  was 
a  note  of  incredulity  in  his  voice,  which  had  sunk 
to  a  low  note.  His  muscles  were  strained;  he 
gazed  searchingly,  helplessly,  into  Estabrook's 
eyes  as  if  he  sought  to  learn  whether  his  own 
words  could  possibly  be  true,  or  how  completely 
they  would  damn  him. 

162 


The  Fly  Enters 

"Yes,"  said  Estabrook  soothingly,  again  study- 
ing the  little  spiral  of  smoke  from  his  cigarette. 
'Yes,  I  know." 

The  other  gulped  audibly;  a  sad  expression  as 
of  betrayal  darkened  his  eyes.  "You  knew!"  he 
exclaimed  incredulously. 

"Perhaps  I  should  have  said  I  inferred  as 
much.  I  knew  what  the  provocation  was.  I  knew 
that  your  conscience  was  troubling  you.  I  had 
concluded  that  it  couldn't  be  anything  else."  He 
paused  an  instant  and  then  added  as  if  with  a 
friendly  impulse  :  "Yet  that  isn't  quite  true,  either. 
I  think  I  ought  to  let  the  first  statement  stand.  / 
knew." 

"But  you  couldn't  have  known!" 

"Yes,  I  could.  Let  me  prove  it.  Suppose  I 
tell  you  your  uncle's  name?" 

His  companion's  glance  was  shrinking  with 
fear.  The  power  of  speech  deserted  him  for  the 
moment;  and  as  he  stared  in  terror  and  amaze- 
ment, Estabrook  continued  easily: 

"His  name  was  Drumm.  Pheneas  Drumm." 
He  did  not  look  at  his  companion  now.  He  went 
on  in  a  tranquil  tone.  "You  went  to  his  shop 
several  times  and  he  did  not  recognize  you.  It 
was  you  who  told  me  this,  you  remember.  But 
you  didn't  tell  me  that  on  one  of  those  visits  to 
the  shop  you  observed  that  the  door  in  his  private 
office — where  the  armored  knight  stood,  you 
know — opened  upon  a  stairway  and  to  a  room  or 

163 


Whispers 

rooms  above;  probably  a  storeroom.  And  you 
guessed  that  the  storeroom  might  be  entered  by 
way  of  an  adjacent  building,  or  perhaps  a  fire- 
escape.  And  so  you  chose  your  night  and  entered 
the  alley  back  of  the  shop ;  and  sure  enough,  you 
found  a  fire-escape.  And  you  climbed  up  by  way 
of  the  fire-escape.  It  was  not  easy;  but  you 
succeeded." 

He  studied  his  cigarette  minutely  a  little  while. 
He  meant  to  give  his  companion  an  opportunity 
to  speak — to  verify  or  to  contradict.  But  Cape 
remained  silent,  an  expression  of  mingled  incredu- 
lity and  intense  interest  in  his  eyes. 

"You  did  not  mean  to  kill  him,"  resumed  Esta- 
brook.  "Such  a  desperate  measure  had  not  even 
occurred  to  you.  You  were  not  prepared  for  any 
deed  of  violence.  You  meant  to  confront  him 
alone.  Your  intention  was  not  altogether  clear 
even  to  yourself.  But  you  had  the  thought  of 
charging  him  with  his  crime.  You  meant  to 
threaten,  perhaps.  You  had  brooded  so  long  over 
your  injuries  that  you  scarcely  knew  what  you 
meant  to  do.  You  were  practically  without  funds 
and  it  was  becoming  more  and  more  apparent  to 
you  every  day  that  there  were  no  methods  by 
which  you  could  earn  money.  At  least  that  was 
your  conviction.  And  you  felt,  perhaps  subcon- 
sciously to  a  great  extent,  that  your  uncle  might 
restore  to  you  a  part  of  the  money  which  had  been 

164 


The  Fly  Enters 

your  mother's,  if  you  faced  him  alone  in  the  night 
and  demanded  restitution." 

He  heard  a  great  sigh  of  relief — a  tremulous 
sigh.  He  suspected  that  his  companion  might 
weep  if  he  looked  into  his  eyes  now.  He  con- 
tinued placidly: 

"Your  plan  worked  perfectly.  You  got  into 
the  storeroom;  you  descended  the  stairway.  You 
found  the  door  into  the  office  unlocked.  And  you 
slipped  out  into  the  private  office  and  stood  behind 
your  uncle  before  he  knew  anyone  had  entered. 

"It  was  then  that  the  tragedy  unexpectedly  de- 
veloped. Your  uncle  heard  you.  He  could  not 
know,  of  course,  that  it  was  you.  He  supposed 
you  were  a  robber.  He  sprang  from  his  chair. 
He  lifted  his  hand  quickly  and  extinguished  the 
one  light  in  the  room.  And  at  the  same  time  he 
reached  for  a  revolver  which  he  had  concealed  in 
a  drawer  of  the  table  at  which  he  sat." 

He  was  startled  by  an  eager,  a  piteous  cry  of 
relief — a  voice  as  of  a  lost  soul  coming  within 
reach  of  a  distant  light.  It  was  Cape's  voice  de- 
manding— "Did  he?  Did  he  reach  for  a  re- 
volver?" 

Estabrook  paused,  perplexed,  with  something 
of  the  manner  of  a  hunting  dog  which  has  been 
thrown  off  the  scent.  Surely  Cape  knew  of  the 
revolver!  How  else  could  one  account  for  the 
fact  that  it  was  missing?  Had  the  officer  taken 
it  and  failed  to  mention  it  in  his  report?  He 

165 


Whispers 

could  not  believe  so.  Nor  yet  could  he  believe 
that  Cape  was  dissembling.  He  decided  to  leave 
the  subject  of  the  revolver,  at  least  for  the  mo- 
ment. 

"He  did,"  he  continued  in  response  to  Cape's 
question.  "Though  in  the  darkness  you  could  not 
be  sure  of  that.  You  feared  that  he  might  do 
so — or  at  least  you  feared  that  he  might  injure 
you.  You  became  quite  as  greatly  terrified  as 
your  uncle  was.  You  shrank  back  and  your  hand 
came  upon  a  weapon  of  defense.  You  had  not 
given  a  thought  to  it.  You  had  forgotten  that  it 
was  there.  But  there  in  the  darkness,  while  your 
uncle  groped,  invisible,  before  you,  your  hand 
touched  the  hilt  of  the  knight's  sword." 

He  lifted  his  glance  slowly  now.  In  drawing 
the  picture  he  had  ventured  to  put  in  certain  de- 
tails at  which  he  had  merely  guessed.  But  he  was 
relieved  to  read  in  his  companion's  glance  full 
verification  of  what  he  had  said. 

He  continued:  "You  drew  forth  the  sword  in- 
stinctively. But  you  knew  nothing  of  its  use,  sup- 
posing it  to  be  a  real  sword,  and  not  an  imitation 
of  pewter.  You  had  never  learned  how  to  handle 
a  sword.  But  you  realized  in  a  flash  that  it  had 
formidable  weight.  And  you  seized  it  by  the  blade 
and  used  it  as  if  it  were  a  bludgeon.  You  struck 
a  blow  in  the  dark.  You  could  see  nothing  at  all 
of  what  occurred.  But  you  knew  that  your  blow 
had  not  gone  astray.  You  heard  your  uncle  fall. 

166 


The  Fly  Enters 

There  had  been  the  sound  of  a  skull  being  crushed. 
And  the  words  were  flashed  upon  your  brain  in 
scarlet  letters — 'I  have  killed  him!'  And  then, 
stealthily,  yet  in  a  panic  of  fear,  you  left  the  place, 
afraid  even  to  look  behind  you.  And  then — then 
you  came  here  to  Madam  Joan's.  I  believe  you 
did  not  come  directly.  A  man  who  has  committed 
a  desperate  deed  always  seeks  his  hiding-place 
by  a  roundabout  course.  But  in  a  short  time  you 
were  here  in  your  room. 

"That's  all.  I  needn't  tell  you  how  you  couldn't 
sleep,  and  how  you  went  into  the  dining-room 
more  for  the  purpose  of  catching  a  glimpse  of 
human  faces  than  from  the  need  of  food.  And 
later  you  saw  the  light  in  my  room  and  entered." 

He  paused  and  smiled  candidly  into  the  other's 
eyes.  His  expression  told  no  tale  of  horror  or 
hatred.  He  might  have  been  outlining  nothing 
more  than  a  harmless  boyish  escapade. 

But  Cape  was  not  returning  his  glance.  He  was 
gazing  at  nothing,  his  eyes  expressing  bewilder- 
ment, yet  a  measure  of  relief  too. 

"I  ought  to  add,"  resumed  Estabrook,  "that  no 
one  saw  the  things  I  have  described.  Your  secret 
is  still  safe — from  everyone  save  me.  I  can't 
explain  fully  how  I  know  just  what  took  place.  I 
wasn't  there,  of  course.  Not  until  afterward. 
And  it  seems  that  the  things  I  saw  when  I  visited 
the  shop  later  were  not  seen  by  others,  not  even 
by  the  police.  You  are  not  to  feel  that  you  are 

167 


Whispers 

helpless.  I  repeat,  nobody  knows  but  you  and 
me." 

"And  you "  said  Cape,  the  bewildered  ex- 
pression in  his  eyes  deepening  until  he  seemed 
quite  childishly  helpless. 

"And  I  couldn't  prove  the  story  I've  told — not 
without  your  testimony." 

But  Cape  was  vaguely  shaking  his  head.  "That 
I  struck  him  with  the  sword,"  he  said,  "  .  .  . 
how  could  you  know,  if  you  didn't  see  it?  I  put 
the  sword  back,  you  know.  Something  warned 
me  that  I  ought  to  put  it  back;  and  I  had  the  good 
luck  to  find  the  scabbard  in  the  dark,  and  to  put 
the  sword  back  into  it." 

"I  examined  the  hilt  by  daylight,"  said  Esta- 
brook.  "Certain  things  had  clung  to  it,  where  it 
had  fallen  heavily  on  a  man's  head.' 

Cape  swallowed  with  difficulty.  "And  that  he 
reached  for  a  revolver — how  could  you  know 
that?" 

Estabrook  met  the  question  frankly.  "I  told  you 
I  couldn't  fully  explain  how  I  know  all  that  took 
place.  But  there  was  a  pistol  in  the  drawer  of 
his  table.  It  was  taken  out.  What  more  cer- 
tain than  that  he'd  have  seized  upon  it  in  such 
an  extremity?" 

"If  I  could  only  be  sure  about  the  pistol,"  fal- 
tered Cape.  And  then,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
comes  slowly  from  under  the  influence  of  an 
anesthetic,  he  looked  at  Estabrook.  "You're 

168 


The  Fly  Enters 

right,  so  far  as  the  rest  of  it  is  concerned.  You've 
told  it  all,  except  how  I  fought  against  the  temp- 
tation to  go  to  his  shop  at  night.  I'd  had  long 
days  and  nights  of  worrying,  you  know;  and  I'd 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  couldn't  get  on  at 
all — that  I'd  have  to  go  back  home  and  admit  I 
was  a  failure.  And  then  I  began  to  hear  rumors 
about  'old  man  Drumm' — about  his  being  a  re- 
cluse, and  wealthy,  and  mysterious.  And  when  at 
last  I  fully  decided  to  go  to  him  the  decision 
came  so  suddenly  that  I  was  on  my  way  before 
I  realized  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Estabrook  soothingly.  "We  all  do 
a  great  many  things  that  way,  I  think." 

"But  think  where  it  places  me!  He's  to  be 
buried  to-morrow.  I  saw  that  in  one  of  the  papers. 
And  there  won't  be  a  soul  belonging  to  him  to  see 
him  put  away  unless  I  go — and  you  know  I 
couldn't  think  of  going!" 

"Well,  why  should  you?" 

"And  there's  the  question  of  his  estate — what- 
ever it  amounts  to.  There  isn't  any  relative  but 
me;  and  yet  I  couldn't  go  forward  to  claim  it!" 

"Not  for  a  day  or  so,  perhaps — yet  why  not? 
After  all,  it  will  not  be  necessary.  The  probate 
court  will  act,  if  it  hasn't  already  acted.  The 
public  administrator  will  step  in.  There's  a  ma- 
chine kept  running  for  such  cases." 

He  could  see  that  Cape  had  not  been  definitely 
enlightened  by  these  words,  and  he  volunteered 

169 


Whispers 

the  information :  "Their  first  plan  will  be  to  find 
a  relative — or  better,  a  thousand  relatives,  so  that 
the  estate  will  be  eaten  up  in  litigation.  And 
pending  the  discovery  of  relatives  they  are  likely 
to  keep  his  business  going,  if  it's  a  profitable  busi- 
ness. And  you've  only  to  step  forward  in  your 
own  good  time  and  claim  whatever  there  is,  minus 
tribute  to  the  machine  I've  just  mentioned." 

He  was  smiling  drily;  and  he  was  not  prepared 
for  Cape's  outburst. 

"Oh,  but  don't  you  see,"  exclaimed  Cape  de- 
spairingly, "that's  not  the  problem  at  all,  so  far  as 
I'm  concerned.  So  far  as  the  estate's  concerned, 
I  should  think  they'd  refuse  to  give  it  to  me,  after 
what  I've  done " 

Estabrook  spoke  calmly:  "I  believe  Blackstone 
has  it  that  a  man  cannot  derive  a  benefit  from  his 
own  crime.  But  that  could  scarcely  apply — here 
in  America,  at  least — save  in  a  case  of  first-degree 
murder.  And  you've  not  been  guilty  of  that." 

"Well,  never  mind  about  that,  then.  All  that 
amounts  to  nothing.  I'm  thinking  about  the  brand 
I've  placed  upon  myself.  I'm  wondering  how  I 
am  to  go  on  living,  with  the  thought  that  I've 
taken  a  human  life — even  such  a  life  as  old 
Drumm's.  His  baseness  doesn't  seem  to  count 
now.  He  was  alive,  and  I  took  his  life.  What- 
ever he  was,  I've  made  myself  a  thousand  times 
worse  than  he  ever  was." 

170 


The  Fly  Enters 

"Not  at  all!"  declared  Estabrook.  "My  dear 
fellow,  you're  making  the  mistake  of  your  life  in 
condemning  youself  as  a  hopelessly  bad  lot  and  in 
feeling  that  you've  lost  everything.  Let  me  assure 
you :  the  thing  isn't  half  as  bad  as  you  think  it  is !" 

Cape  seemed  on  the  verge  of  rejecting  this  point 
of  view;  but  there  was  something  in  Estabrook's 
manner — his  calmness,  the  conviction  in  his  tone — 
which  stayed  him.  "Are  you  really  in  earnest?" 
he  asked.  And  then,  as  if  seeking  a  short  cut  to 
a  solider  foundation — "But  what  am  I  to  do? 
That's  the  one  question  I  can't  answer.  What  am 
I  to  do  ?"  And  then,  quite  unexpectedly,  he  arose 
and  began  to  pace  the  floor  almost  as  if  he  no 
longer  saw  Estabrook  or  thought  of  him.  A 
beam  of  life  and  hope  was  beginning  to  come  back 
into  his  eyes.  "But  if  he  really  drew  a  weapon 
...  it  makes  it  out  a  simple  case  of  self-defense, 
after  all." 

He  returned  to  his  chair.  In  the  last  moment 
he  had  become  rejuvenated,  he  held  his  shoulders 
erect,  a  faint  color  burned  in  his  cheeks,  his  eyes 
had  become  keen.  And  then,  looking  down  upon 
Estabrook,  the  flow  of  his  happier  emotions  was 
checked.  It  was  as  if  a  cloud  had  obscured  the 
sun.  He  gazed  at  the  other  man  with  something 
like  stupefaction:  for  it  seemed  to  him  that  in 
spite  of  all  that  Estabrook  had  said,  he  was  read- 
ing his  doom  in  the  eyes  which  gazed  up  at  him. 


171 


Chapter  XIX 
The  Terms  of  the  Treaty 

YOU  asked  me,"  said  Estabrook,  "what  you 
were  to   do.     If  you  think  my  advice  is 
worth  having  I'll  be  glad  to  offer  it.    I'll  give  you 
the  sort  of  advice  I  should  wish  to  have  if  I 
were  in  your  place." 

"I  thought,"  began  Cape  falteringly,  "you  had 
made  it  rather  plain  that  I  ought  not  to  do  any- 
thing— just  now."  He  had  been  made  uneasy 
by  Estabrook's  steadfast,  almost  solemn  manner. 
"And  yet — of  course  I  should  like  to  know  your 
views.  I  don't  suppose  I  can  let  the  matter  stand 
just  where  it  is." 

"No,  you  could  scarcely  do  that,"  said  Esta- 
brook. "Sit  down,  won't  you?  I  think  we  ought 
not  to  be  in  a  hurry.  No,  I  think  it  wouldn't  do 
at  all  for  you  to  let  the  matter  stand  just  where 
it  is." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment — a  silence 
more  oppressively  murmurous  than  ever,  since  the 
noises  along  the  distant  streets  had  almost  wholly 
subsided,  and  but  few  of  Madame  Joan's  patrons 
were  now  stirring. 

"And  so ?"  prompted  Cape  uneasily. 

172 


The  Terms  of  the  Treaty 

"It's  very  simple.  There  is  only  one  thing  for 
you  to  do,  as  I  see  it.  You  ought  to  go  to  police 
headquarters  and  say,  'I  am  the  man  you  are  look- 
ing for.'  You  ought  to  tell  the  whole  truth." 

But  Cape  cried  out  in  sharp  protest — "No,  no ! 
I  couldn't  do  that!  Not  that!"  He  had  become 
the  despairing,  helpless  creature  of  an  hour  ago. 
It  was  as  if  Estabrook  had  constructed  a  bridge 
of  hope  for  him,  and  then  had  destroyed  the  struc- 
ture wantonly.  "Anyone  could  have  thought  of 
that,"  he  added  in  hot  protest.  "The  disgrace, 
the  danger,  the — the  punishment;  what  worse 
thing  could  happen  to  me  than  all  that?" 

"Won't  you  calm  yourself?"  urged  Estabrook. 
He  pondered  a  moment.  "A  much  worse  thing 
could  happen  to  you,"  he  continued.  "A  perpetual 
sense  of  guilt  and  fear — that's  the  greatest  evil 
of  all.  That's  what  I'd  like  to  have  you  escape. 
That's  what  you  can  escape,  if  you  will.  Just  to 
let  the  matter  stand  as  it  is:  a  whole  life-time 
wouldn't  set  you  right,  or  give  you  back  real  free- 
dom. The  truth  would  come  out  in  time,  and  it 
might  come  out  when  it  would  be  far  more  fatal 
to  you  than  it  could  be  now.  There's  a  thorn  in 
your  flesh.  You  must  have  it  taken  out  before 
you  can  hope  to  have  the  wound  healed." 

But  Cape  shook  his  head.  "Anything  but 
that!'  he  cried.'  "I  couldn't  tell!" 

"But  my  dear  fellow,  there  isn't  anything  but 
that!" 

173 


Whispers 

"It  wouldn't  be  fair!"  declared  Cape.  "I  didn't 
do  anything,  really,  that  almost  any  other  man 
wouldn't  have  done.  It  was  a  manlier  thing  to 
do  than  to  have  set  the  police  on  him.  And  yet  if 
I  confessed  I'd  be  branded — at  least  in  the  minds 
of  people  who  would  never  really  know — and  I'd 
be  punished.  I'd  be  locked  up  in  prison.  I  might 
be  hanged!" 

Estabrook  seemed  to  consider  this  judicially, 
patiently.  At  length  he  said:  "You  mustn't  mind 
being  branded  in  the  minds  of  people  who  would 
never  really  know.  It's  a  weakness  to  think  of 
that.  And  you  wouldn't  be  hanged.  Nothing  like 
that.  We  ought  to  view  the  thing  reasonably, 
you  know.  They  would  lock  you  up — yes."  He 
smiled  dryly.  "Milton  was  locked  up,  you  re- 
member. Let's  not  be  afraid  of  a  phrase.  What 
makes  you  think  it  would  be  so  terrible  a  thing  to 
be  locked  up — for  a  little  while?  That's  what 
life  is:  a  soul  in  prison,  locked  up.  And  we  all 
shrink  from  having  it  liberated." 

Cape  seemed  on  the  point  of  rising  impatiently. 
"Those  abstractions — I  know  what  they're  worth. 
This  is  not  a  time  for  them.  They'll  do  when 
you're  considering  the  other  fellow.  I'm  not  in- 
terested in  them — now." 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Estabrook.  "I  shouldnt  have 
permitted  myself  to  be  led  into — abstractions. 
You're  right.  But  come,  let  me  point  out  the 
actual  conditions  and  facts." 

174 


The  Terms  of  the  Treaty 

He  waited  until  his  companion  had  regained  a 
measure  of  calm  and  then  he  resumed:  "They 
would  lock  you  up — yes.  And  what  then?  At 
first  it  would  seem  pretty  bad.  There  would  be 
a  lot  of  noise.  There  would  be  sensational  stories 
in  the  newspapers.  And  then — well,  then  the  re- 
action would  begin.  Our  old  friend  Time  would 
take  a  hand.  A  wonderful  friend,  Time.  It 
would  work  out  like  this :  The  public  would  begin 
to  forget.  Something  else  would  occur  to  divert 
the  public's  attention.  The  machinery  by  which 
you  would  be  brought  to  trial  would  work  slowly. 
It  nearly  always  does.  Before  long  everybody 
would  forget  all  about  the  old  dealer  in  masks. 
They  would  almost  completely  forget  you.  When 
your  case  was  mentioned  in  the  newspapers  it 
would  be  in  brief  routine  items  under  simple 
headlines.  And  when  at  last  the  time  came  for 
you  to  be  tried,  nobody  save  the  judges  and  the 
other  people  constituting  the  machine  would  care 
about  you  one  way  or  another. 

"And  now  here's  a  cheerful  thought  I  want  to 
impress  upon  your  mind:  Another  good  friend 
would  come  to  your  aid,  following  our  old  friend 
Time.  The  new  friend  would  be  Facts.  Sensa- 
tionalism, with  its  power  to  annoy  you,  would 
have  died.  Judgment  without  knowledge,  con- 
demnation without  a  hearing — all  the  weapons  of 
ignorance — would  have  .disappeared.  Facts 
v/or.ld  begin  to  assume  the  upper  hand.  The  other 

175 


Whispers 

side — rextenuating  circumstances — ^provocation—- 
the theory  of  self-defense — all  these  agencies 
would  come  forward.  They  would  all  aid  you. 
You'd  have  real  friends  to  take  the  places  of  the 
invisible,  unreal  enemies  who  had  made  things 
look  so  dark  for  you  in  the  beginning.  It  wouldn't 
be  so  bad,  really.  I've  watched  the  process  scores 
of  times.  You  may  believe  what  I  tell  you." 

Cape  had  been  far  from  unimpressed  by  the 
other's  argument.  He  had  been  examining  the 
exhibits  placed  before  him  and  they  had  seemed 
increasingly  desirable  and  interesting.  And  then, 
true  to  the  habit  of  the  rustic  mind,  he  had  begun 
to  see  his  situation  through  the  eyes  of  the  group 
of  persons  who  knew  him  at  home,  and  his  stub- 
born resistance  reasserted  itself.  "But  to  go  vol- 
untarily and  tell,"  he  argued,  "when  there's  a 
chance  they  might  never  find  out — I  can't  quite 
see  why  I  should  do  that,  after  all!" 

Estabrook  regarded  him  musingly,  a  little  hope- 
lessly. The  man's  inability  to  grasp  the  problem 
in  an  impersonal  way;  his  eager  youth,  with  its 
blundering  and  shallow  impulses — these  seemed 
really  formidable  obstacles  in  the  way  of  a  right 
solution  of  the  problem. 

"Let  me  try  again,"  he  said,  as  if  he  were  ad- 
dressing himself  rather  than  his  companion.  "You 
don't  mind  my  saying  how  I  feel  about  it,  at 
least?"  He  shifted  his  position  in  his  chair  and 
slowly  settled  into  an  attitude  of  thoughtful  re- 

176 


The  Terms  of  the  Treaty 

pose.  Presently  he  said — "You've  probably  heard 
a  lot  of  lectures  in  your  time.  Lectures  and  ser- 
mons— such  things.  But  I  doubt  if  you  ever  heard 
one  that  applied  to  you  and  you  alone  as  com- 
pletely as  the  one  I'm  going  to  deliver  right  now." 

He  paused  and  smiled;  and  then,  noting  that 
his  companion's  mind  was  wandering — that  he 
was  probably  making  his  mind  up  for  himself — he 
put  an  additional  note  of  crispness  into  his  voice. 

"I'm  going  to  take  a  text,"  he  resumed,  "for 
the  sake  of  a  suitable  atmosphere.  The  text  is 
The  Truth  Shall  Make  You  Free.  And,  by  the 
way,  it's  a  text  that's  got  a  lot  in  it  for  every  last 
man  and  woman  in  the  world,  no  matter  what 
they've  done."  Then,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
manner — with  a  warmth  and  impetuosity  which 
almost  startled  the  other  man,  he  said — "Look 
here,  Cape,  did  you  ever  hear  it  said  that  life  is 
an  adventure?  Of  course  you  have!  But  did 
you  ever  stop  to  think  what  that  meant?  You 
know,  it's  a  good  adventure — if  you  don't  cheat. 
It  can't  help  being  a  sorry  adventure  if  you  think 
you  can  get  along  without  being  on  the  level.  If 
you  make  up  your  mind  not  to  cheat  there's  noth- 
ing that  can  happen  to  you  that  you  need  really 
to  fear.  Just  now  you're  thinking  of  going  to  the 
penitentiary  as  if  it  meant  good-bye  to  everything. 
But  think  of  the  value  of  knowing  just  what  life 
in  the  penitentiary  is  if  you  could  study  it  in  the 
right  way!  Some  mighty  big  people  have  gone 

177 


Whispers 

to  a  lot  of  pains  to  find  out.  If  some  wise  man 
could  find  out  exactly  and  tell  the  world  he'd  be 
doing  a  far  greater  service  than  the  fellows  who 
reach  the  poles.  Mind  you,  I  wouldn't  go  to  the 
penitentiary  voluntarily — without  real  cause,  I 
mean — because  I  believe  there  are  plenty  of  other 
things  to  find  out.  But  I'll  assure  you  of  this:  if 
it  were  up  to  me  either  to  go  to  the  penitentiary 
or  to  cheat,  I'd  proudly  go  to  prison,  and  I'd  make 
every  minute  of  my  prison  term  count. 

"You  see,  a  man's  got  a  right  to  dance  almost 
any  measure  that  happens  to  appeal  to  him — if 
he'll  only  remember  to  pay  the  fiddler  after  he 
has  danced.  You've  got  a  right  to  flagons  and 
apples,  if  only  you'll  settle  with  the  man  who  runs 
the  wineshop  and  with  the  chap  who  owns  the  or- 
chard. There's  only  one  rule.  You  must  pay. 
And  while  you're  paying  you're  learning  what 
things  are  worth  the  price  that's  asked  for  them. 
That  means  progress.  That  means  future  wis- 
dom. But  you'll  never  get  a  right  idea  of  values 
unless  you  pay  as  you  go;  pay  for  every  single 
thing,  and  count  it  a  privilege  to  pay." 

He  paused  and  looked  into  Cape's  eyes,  which 
were  like  the  eyes  of  a  child  when  it  observes  a 
fascinating  yet  obscure  object. 

"We'll  suppose  that  you  are  required  to  go  to 
prison,"  resumed  Estabrook.  "It  will  be  hard,  of 
course.  The  experience  may  not  do  you  a  bit  of 
good  in  itself.  But  think  how  you'll  feel  when 

178 


The  Terms  of  the  Treaty 

you've  served  your  time,  and  the  warden  has  called 
you  into  his  office  to  notify  you  that  the  day  of 
your  release  is  at  hand,  and  you  stand  at  last  out- 
side the  prison  gate  with  the  free  light  and  air 
about  you,  and  the  world  before  you.  Can't  you 
imagine  the  sensation  of  having  squared  up?  No 
living  man  could  say  to  you — 'You  cheated;  you 
didn't  pay.'  You'd  be  all  set  for  a  fresh  start. 
The  world  would  be  a  new  world. 

"But  look  at  the  other  side  of  it:  Suppose  you 
should  decide  to  run  away,  to  hide  without  paying. 
Should  you  feel  right  for  a  minute?  You  know 
you'd  not!  And  you'd  keep  feeling  worse  every 
day  as  long  as  you  lived.  You'd  be  forever  duck- 
ing your  head  in  the  presence  of  honest  men. 
You'd  become  a  trembling  coward.  And  that's 
a  condition  that  becomes  progressive.  The  poison 
of  secrecy  and  cowardice  would  eat  further  and 
further  into  your  character  until  it  wouldn't  leave 
you  a  single  sound  impulse.  You'd  become  worth- 
less through  and  through.  And  so  at  the  end  of 
the  adventure — in  the  day  of  your  old  age — you'd 
curse  the  day  you  were  born,  and  even  your  curse 
would  be  so  feeble  that  no  one  would  shudder  or 
care.  The  persons  who  might  be  witnesses  to 
your  death  would  simply  say:  'He  was  one  of  the 
poor  creatures  who  cheated.'  And  they  would 
pass  on,  forgetting  you." 

The  expression  in  Cape's  eyes,  still  fixed  upon 
vacancy,  had  changed  slightly.  The  object  he 

179 


Whispers 

seemed  to  behold  was  still  fascinating — but  it  was 
now  becoming  less  obscure. 

"Now,  a  last  word,"  added  Estabrook.  "I've 
been  placing  the  darker  aspects  of  your  case  in 
the  foreground.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't  be- 
lieve you'd  be  required  to  go  to  prison.  I  believe 
you'd  be  acquitted.  I  mean  to  say,  I  believe  an 
intelligent  court  would  write  across  your  bill — 
'Paid  in  full.'  I  don't  believe  you're  guilty  of  the 
crime  of  murder,  not  in  any  degree.  I'd  want  to 
appear  as  a  witness  for  you.  I'd  relate  how  I 
found  a  smear  of  oily  blood  and  hair  on  the  handle 
of  the  knight's  sword :  proving  that  you  laid  hold 
upon  a  weapon  after  you  entered  the  shop.  I'd 
testify  that  a  pistol  had  been  removed  from  a 
drawer  in  your  uncle's  table  only  a  short  time, 
apparently,  before  his  death.  Such  testimony 
would  point  unmistakably  to  self-defense.  And 
my  testimony  would  strengthen  your  own. 

"Just  the  same,  you  must  remember  that  you've 
a  price  to  pay.  You  must  stand  out  in  the  open. 
You  mustn't  be  afraid.  You  must  do  your  part 
toward  establishing  the  real  truth.  But  can't  you 
see  how  it  would  be  worth  while  a  thousand  times 
over?  To  know  that  you  had  played  your  part 
like  a  man,  and  that  for  the  folly  and  wrong  of 
entering  your  uncle's  shop  by  stealth  you  had  made 
full  restitution " 

His  argument  came  to  an  abrupt  end.  His  com- 
panion had  sprung  to  his  feet.  "You're  right!" 

180 


The  Terms  of  the  Treaty 

he  cried.  "There  isn't  anything  else  for  me  to 
do.  I'm  going " 

He  had  turned  excitedly  toward  the  door,  as  if 
all  that  he  desired  or  cherished  lay  in  the  path 
which  Estabrook  had  pointed  out  to  him.  After 
long  inactivity  the  lumbering  elevator  was  heard 
moving. 

Estabrook  arose  with  a  tranquillity  which  he 
assumed  with  difficulty.  "But — not  quite  that 
way,"  he  suggested  in  a  detaining  tone.  "If  you 
don't  mind — will  you  sit  down  again  for  just  a 
minute?" 


181 


Chapter  XX 
Estabrook  Shows  His  Hand 

THERE  are  a  few  things  I  want  to  explain 
before  you  go  any  further — before  either 
of  us  goes  any  further,"  said  Estabrook. 

Cape  faced  him  inquiringly  and  remained  in 
his  place  reluctantly,  it  appeared.  "If  it  could 
wait  until  another  time — what  you  have  to  say, 
I  mean,"  he  said.  "I  can't  believe  there's  any- 
thing else  I  need  to  hear.  You've  made  my  situ- 
ation perfectly  clear  to  me — so  clear  it  seems  to 
me  remarkable  that  I  shouldn't  have  known,  with- 
out advice,  just  what  I  ought  to  do.  We'll  meet 
often  again,  I  hope " 

"Of  course  we  shall.  But  on  the  whole  I  should 
think  it  might  be  better  if  you  didn't  report  to 
the  police  to-night." 

Cape's  expression  darkened  momentarily.  "It 
would  seem  so  much  easier  at  night,"  he  said. 
"There'd  be  only  a  few  to  see.  And  in  the  morn- 
ing when  I  woke  up  the  worst  would  be  over — 
that's  really  how  it  occurs  to  me.  It  wouldn't  seem 
at  all  difficult  to  go  to-ni^ht.  But  you  know  .  .  . 
I  don't  believe  I  act  generally  on  principle,  as  you 

182 


Estabrook  Shows  His  Hand 

do.  I  can't  help  being  what  I  am;  and  I'm  afraid 
when  daylight  comes  and  the  same  old  picture  of 
the  world  comes  back  to  me — its  trivial,  common- 
place ways — I'd  lose  the — the  sort  of  vision  I've 
got  to-night.  It  would  be  easy  to  go  to-night,  be- 
cause to-night  going  seems  the  easiest,  simplest 
way." 

"Still- — won't  you  sit  down?  You  see,  I 
shouldn't  feel  at  all  satisfied  if  I  didn't  add  a  few 
things  to  what  I've  said  to  you.  It's  not  that  I 
shrink  from  the  responsibility  I've  taken.  I 
haven't  a  doubt  in  the  world  that  I've  pointed  out 
the  right  course  to  you.  But  I  shouldn't  want  you 
to  think  afterward  that  I'd  had  a  base  motive. 
I'm  hoping  you'll  say,  ten  years  from  now,  perhaps 
a  year  from  now,  'Estabrook  was  a  real  friend. 
He  was  square.' ' 

"I  shall,"  said  Cape,  with  conviction. 

"Well,  let's  see.  In  the  first  place  I  went  to  tell 
you  something  about  the  sort  of  work  I'm  doing. 
You  know  I  told  you  it  was  gathering  information. 
But  there  was  something  else  I  might  have  added 
to  that.  I'm  with  one  of  the  newspapers  here — 
a  reporter.  And  the  first  thing  I  shall  do,  when 
you've  given  yourself  up  to  justice,  will  be  to  write 
a  full  account  of  all  you've  done.  It  will  be 
printed,  every  word,  in  the  Fidette." 

Cape's  face  became  a  curious  study  in  emotions, 
in  an  expression  of  bitter  grief,  crystallizing 
through  the  mingled  expffcssions  of  bewilderment 

183 


Whispers 

and  doubt.  He  searched  his  companion's  eyes 
with  a  shocked,  incredulous  stare;  and  when  he 
knew  he  had  comprehended  aright  his  glance  fell 
with  the  shame  with  which  one  contemplates  a 
betrayer.  He  could  not  speak  for  a  long  moment; 
but  at  last  he  managed  to  say  in  a  low,  faltering 
voice — 

"And  you  meant  to — to  write  it  all  for  the 
paper,  from  the  beginning?" 

"Yes.  Though  my  attitude  has  changed  con- 
siderably since  the  beginning.  At  first  you  were 
to  me  just  one  of  an  unknown  army  of  a  million 
blundering  men.  I  meant  to  tell  the  truth  about 
you — not  maliciously,  you  know,  nor  with  any 
personal  feeling.  I  meant  simply  to  assemble  the 
facts  and  make  them  public.  But  almost  from 
the  beginning  I  saw  that  I  ought  to  help  you,  too — 
that  I  could  help  you.  The  picture  of  your  boy- 
hood you  drew — those  days  of  aimless  studying 
at  the  academy,  and  your  blind  faith  in  the  future, 
and  then  the  fine  struggle  you  made  for  your 
mother's  sake — it  all  made  your  case  different.  I 
wanted  my  story  to  work  out  right — yes.  But  I 
wanted  your  story  to  work  out  right,  too.  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  it  should  work  out  right.  Can 
you  understand  that,  and  do  you  believe  me?" 

"I  believe  you,"  said  Cape  in  a  low  voice.  But 
an  expression  of  misery  still  darkened  his  eyes. 

"Well — there  the  matter  stands.  There  wasn't 
a  word  I  said  to  you  that  I  .shouldn't  have  said 

184 


Estabrook  Shows  His  Hand 

to  my  own  brother.  I  believed — I  still  believe — 
that  every  word  I  uttered  was  true." 

"But  to  be  the  first  to  make  my  shame  public!" 

"To  be  the  first  to  tell  how  you  resolved  to  do 
what  was  right !" 

"Well — all  right!"  said  Cape,  again  preparing 
to  go. 

"Again — I'd  be  glad  if  you'd  decide  not  to  go 
to-night,"  said  Estabrook. 

Cape  faced  him  with  a  dark  flush.  "You  mean 
it  will  serve  your  interests  if  I  wait  until  to- 
morrow?" 

"I  mean  it  will  serve  your  interests  if  you  wait 
until  to-morrow — though  I  confess  it  will  serve 
my  interests  too." 

"Perhaps  I  shouldn't  be  so  unreasonable  as  to 
suppose  that  my  interests  matter,"  said  Cape  with 
a  bitterness  which  he  could  not  suppress.  "Of 

course,  if  it's  to  your  interest "  He  paused; 

and  after  a  moment's  silence  he  added  impulsively: 
"No,  I'm  not  willing  to  adopt  that  tone  with  you. 
I  know  you've  been  my  friend.  I'll  not  doubt  it. 
Please  explain  how  it  can  be  to  my  interest " 

"Thank  you,  Cape,"  said  Estabrook  simply. 
"I'll  explain.  You  see,  I  know  your  story — your 
real  story:  not  just  the  story  of  your  visit  to 
Pheneas  Drumm's  shop.  There's  not  another 
newspaper  man  in  town  who  does.  If  I'm  given 
the  chance  to  write  your  story  for  the  Vidette  it 
shall  be  written  in  full.  If  it's  written  for  any 

185 


Whispers 

other  newspaper  it  will  be  incomplete.  If  the 
Fidette's  story  appears  first  it  will  give  its  color  to 
the  stories  in  the  other  papers.  It  will  do  a  good 
deal  toward  setting  you  right  with  the  public  from 
the  beginning." 

"I  think  I  see  that." 

"I'm  sure  you  do.  Well,  do  you  know  what 
will  be  the  result  if  you  go  to  police  headquar- 
ters to-night,  now,  and  make  a  statement?  Every 
newspaper  in  town  has  a  reporter  at  the  Four 
Courts.  At  this  moment  they're  sitting  in  the 
press  room  waiting  like  vultures  for  word  of  some 
man's  distress  or  affliction  to  come  in  by  way  of 
a  patrol  wagon  or  over  the  telephone.  When  it 
comes  in  they  all  get  busy,  each  writing  according 
to  the  style  of  the  newspaper  he  serves.  Their  aim, 
in  the  main,  is  to  write  something  sensational. 
They're  good  enough  fellows,  no  doubt,  but 
they're  working  in  an  atmosphere  which  kills  every 
instinct  except  that  of  the  news-monger,  the  sensa- 
tion-monger. Their  attitude  is  almost  invariably 
against  the  poor  devil  who's  run  afoul  of  the  law. 
Their  chief  idea  is  to  write  something  for  their 
papers  that  will  make  their  papers  sell.  To  a  cer- 
tain extent  they  are  unscrupulous,  in  that  they  are 
ready  to  assume,  so  far  as  they  dare,  that  the  vic- 
tim who  has  come  within  the  meshes  of  the  police 
is  a  guilty  and  vicious  creature.  And  after  they've 
written  their  story  they  forget  the  man  who's  been 
stored  away  in  a  cell  somewhere,  and  they  get 

186 


Estabrook  Shows  His  Hand 

their  feet  up  on  their  table  and  exchange  cynical 
views  and  wait  for  the  next  victim  to  come  in." 

"And  that's  what  I've  got  to  face?"  demanded 
Cape. 

"That's  what  I  mean  you  shall  not  have  to 
face,"  amended  Estabrook  with  decision.  "If 
you'll  still  be  guided  by  me — for  your  own  inter- 
ests as  well  as  mine — you'll  not  take  any  action 
to-night.  You'll  go  to  bed  and  get  a  good  night's 
rest;  and  I'll  venture  to  say  you'll  rest  much  bet- 
ter than  you  did  last  night." 

"And  then ?" 

"Then  to-morrow  I'll  take  certain  steps  to  in- 
sure the  friendly  offices  of  the  chief  of  police.  If 
he's  at  all  the  sort  of  man  he  ought  to  be  I'll  win 
him  over  to  your  side.  And  then  to-morrow  night, 
at  an  hour  which  we'll  agree  upon  later,  you'll 
take  the  big  step — which  I'm  sure  will  prove 
largely  a  formality — of  giving  yourself  over  to 
justice." 

An  element  of  confusion  remained  in  Cape's 
eyes.  He  pondered  a  moment  and  then  asked, 
"And  your  story? " 

"My  story,"  said  Estabrook,  "will  appear  the 
next  morning — exclusively  in  the  Fictette" 


187 


Chapter  XXI 
Setting  the  Stage 

AT  eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning  Estabrook 
was  ready  for  breakfast — yet  not  quite 
ready.  He  had  not  located  Cape;  and  while  he 
was  reasonably  confident  that  his  plans  would  not 
miscarry,  he  felt  it  very  much  safer  to  leave  no 
precaution  untaken;  and  one  of  the  precautions 
which  seemed  to  him  most  important  of  all  was 
to  keep  as  closely  as  possible  to  the  man  without 
whose  co-operation  all  his  plans  would  fail. 

Cape  had  slumbered  heavily  and  long  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  he  was  routed  out  and  con- 
ducted  to  the  dining-room.  Yet  once  wide  awake 
he  proved  to  be  also  surprisingly  cheerful.  He 
had  not  entertained  the  thought  of  drawing  back. 
On  the  contrary,  in  the  clear  light  of  morning  the 
task  ahead  of  him  seemed  even  simpler  and  more 
imperative  than  it  had  seemed  the  night  before. 
He  even  comprehended  Estabrook's  situation 
more  thoroughly — and  approved  it  more  unre- 
servedly. 

The  two  men  had  breakfast  together,  and  Cape 
188 


Setting  the  Stage 

manifested  a  highly  gratifying  readiness  to  play 
his  part  fully  and  with  discretion. 

*  You  might  spend  the  afternoon  reading,  or  in 
any  other  quiet  way,"  said  Estabrook.  "The  less 
you're  seen  the  better — though  of  course  you 
mustn't  seem  to  be  hiding.  We'll  meet  again  in 
the  dining-room  between  six  and  seven,  and  per- 
haps later  in  my  room;  and  then  we'll  talk  over 
final  plans." 

Later — between  one  and  two — he  called  on 
Campbell.  And  when  the  city  editor  looked  up  at 
him — at  first  mildly  inquiring,  as  if  he  had  forgot- 
ten him,  and  then  with  an  amused  smile  which  had 
in  it  the  element  of  mockery — he  remarked:  "I 
just  wanted  to  report  progress,  and  to  get  your 
help  in  one  or  two  little  matters." 

Campbell's  smile  broadened.  "And  I'm  to  un- 
derstand, then,  that  you  haven't  any  red-handed 
slayers  concealed  about  your  person  as  yet?" 

Estabrook  briefly  brushed  aside  the  bantering 
mood.  "The  hour  hasn't  quite  arrived,"  he  re- 
plied. "We'll  have  our  man  where  we  want  him 
to-night.  Our  story  will  appear  on  schedule  time, 
to-morrow  morning." 

He  spoke  so  simply  and  with  so  much  assurance 
that  Campbell's  manner  underwent  a  complete 
change.  "You  don't  mean  it!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  but  I  do.  There  are  only  a  few  minor 
points  to  be  attended  to.  I'll  need  a  letter  of  in- 
troduction to  the  chief  of  police,  and  after  that — 

189 


^Whispers 

well,  I  think  the  only  thing  then  will  be  for  you  to 
say  how  much  space  you'll  care  to  give  to  the 
story." 

Campbell  drew  a  writing-pad  toward  him  and 
began  at  once  a  letter  of  introduction  to  the  chief. 

"The  story "  he  murmured  absent-mindedly; 

and  Estabrook  suggested: 

"You  might  give  it  a  column,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  a  column,  certainly,  if  you  like.  I  think 
I  may  leave  that  to  you."  He  continued  to  write 
on  the  tab  under  his  hand. 

"And  I  suppose  the  story  ought  to  be  in  hand 
not  very  much  after  midnight?" 

Campbell  did  not  reply  immediately.  He  fin- 
ished his  letter  of  introduction  and  placed  it  in 
an  envelope.  "What  did  you  say?"  he  inquired: 
"the  time?  Well — our  city  edition  goes  to  press 
about  three.  In  an  emergency  we  could  handle  a 
story  that  got  to  my  desk  as  late  as  two.  Cer- 
tainly it  ought  not  to  be  much  later  than  that." 
Then  the  bantering  expression  returned  to  his 
eyes  in  a  slighter  degree.  "But  why  shouldn't  you 
turn  it  in  now,  since  you're  so  sure  of  your  man?" 

Estabrook  frowned  faintly.  "My  work's  not 
done  yet,"  he  said.  "But  I'll  keep  the  hour  in 
mind — two  o'clock.  You  may  be  sure  the  story 
will  be  in  your  hands  not  a  minute  later  than  that." 

He  was  making  certain  reservations  in  his  deal- 
ing with  Campbell — reservations  which  he  would 
scarcely  have  acknowledged  to  himself.  It  was  his 

190 


Setting  the  Stage 

impression  that  Campbell  was  an  ideal  city  editor; 
but  experience  had  taught  him  to  be  wary  of  all 
city  editors.  Their  almost  universal  fault,  he  be- 
lieved, was  to  take  themselves  too  seriously.  In 
the  very  nature  of  things — theirs  being  the  larger 
responsibility — they  would  rarely  trust  a  reporter 
implicitly  and  permit  him  to  do  his  work  unaided 
and  unhindered.  Being  required  to  remain,  in- 
active, at  their  desks,  they  were  inclined  to  worry, 
to  interfere.  And  he  did  not  want  Campbell  to 
interfere  in  the  Drumm  case.  He  might  put 
another  reporter  on  the  case — and  another  re- 
porter, even  with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world, 
might  spoil  his  well-laid  plans.  He  might  make 
inquiries — of  the  police  or  of  others — which  would 
cause  the  delicate  structure  which  he  was  rearing 
to  totter  and  fall. 

It  was  his  belief  that  he  could  have  turned  in, 
within  the  next  half-hour  or  hour,  practically 
every  word  of  the  story  he  expected  to  write — 
with  the  exception  of  a  brief  statement  from  Cape 
which  he  hoped  to  get;  but  it  was  not  part  of  his 
intention  to  turn  the  story  in  now.  There  were  too 
many  possibilities  of  a  leakage — and  there  was  no 
real  necessity  of  turning  in  the  story  before  two 
o'clock,  according  to  Campbell's  own  statement. 

"I  may  not  see  you  again  before  midnight  or 
after,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  away,  the  letter  of 
introduction  to  the  chief  of  police  in  his  hand. 
"But  you'll  take  me  seriously,  I'm  sure,  when  I 

191 


Whispers 

give  you  my  positive  assurance.  My  story  will  be 
in  by  two  o'clock,  a  column  of  it." 

"Then  I'll  expect  it,"  said  Campbell,  all  traces 
of  his  raillery  gone.  "The  compositors,  the  proof- 
readers, the  make-up  man — all  of  us — will  ex- 
pect a  column  story  in  by  two  o'clock.  And  I'm 
sure  I  needn't  caution  you:  be  sure  you're  right 
before  you  go  ahead." 

"I'll  be  dead-sure  of  every  detail,"  said  Esta- 
brook.  "I  think  I  may  even  promise  a  brief  writ- 
ten confession  from  the  man  who  committed  the 
crime.  But  in  any  event,  I'll  be  sure  I'm  right 
before  I  go  ahead.  Good  afternoon." 


192 


Chapter  XXII 
A'  Compact  with  the  Chief 

AT  police  headquarters  Estabrook  encoun- 
tered, first,  a  youngish  man  who  might  have 
been  a  bank  clerk,  judging  by  his  quiet  manner 
and  neat  dress.  His  appearance  suggested  the 
seamy  side  of  life  as  little  as  the  well-appointed 
office  in  which  he  sat — as  little,  indeed,  as  the 
squat  yet  not  inelegant  building  of  which  the  office 
formed  a  part.  This  was  the  chief's  secretary,  a 
man  who  had  been  a  newspaper  man  in  years 
past,  and  who  greeted  Estabrook  with  informal 
goodwill. 

"The  Chief?"  repeated  the  secretary,  in  re- 
sponse to  Estabrook's  inquiry.  "Yes,  he's  in." 
He  pointed  to  a  massive  inner  door  which  was 
now  closed  and  beyond  which  not  even  a  whisper 
could  be  heard.  "He's  engaged  now.  Sit  down. 
He  ought  to  be  at  liberty  pretty  soon."  And  he 
returned  to  the  examination  of  certain  reports  of 
a  uniform  appearance  which  were  piled  system- 
atically on  his  desk. 

Estabrook  thought  it  well  not  to  interfere  with 
his  work  by  idle  questioning.  He  took  the  chair 

193 


Whispers 

toward  which  the  secretary  had  nodded  and  pre- 
pared to  wait.  Yet  he  had  scarcely  shaped  the 
first  question  which  he  meant  to  put  to  the  chief 
when  the  inner  door  opened.  There  was  now  the 
sound  of  voices  in  that  inner  room:  gay  voices, 
and  perfunctory  laughter,  such  as  mark  an  amia- 
ble exit.  Two  men  in  civilian  clothing  emerged 
from  the  room,  charging  the  secretary's  office  with 
the  odor  of  cigar  smoke,  and  passed  on  their  way. 

The  secretary  promptly  pushed  his  chair  back 
and  arose.  "What  did  you  say  your  name  was?" 
he  asked  Estabrook;  and  when  he  had  listened  to 
the  reply — "Estabrook  of  the  Fidette" — he  dis- 
appeared for  a  moment  in  the  chief's  office,  to 
emerge  with  the  simple  assurance,  "All  right." 

Estabrook's  first  impression  of  the  chief's  office 
was  that  it  was  unexpectedly  shadowy  and  cool  and 
quiet.  The  simple  yet  massive  furniture  included 
a  flat-topped  desk  on  the  far  side  of  the  room,  and 
behind  this  sat  a  very  heavy  man  whose  appear- 
ance suggested  at  once  sharp  watchfulness  and  a 
thoroughly-mastered  repose. 

The  caller  went  close  to  the  official's  desk  be- 
fore he  spoke;  as  always,  he  was  mindful  of  his 
defective  voice  and  of  the  fact  that  it  was  a  source 
of  irritation  to  those  whom  he  addressed  at  a  dis* 
tance.  And  then  he  said,  "I've  a  letter  to  you, 
Chief,  from  Mr.  Campbell  of  the  Fidette." 

The  chief's  rather  expressionless  face  softened 
perceptibly  at  the  sound  of  Campbell's  name.  He 

194 


A  Compact  with  the  Chief 

took  the  letter  of  introduction  from  Estabrook' s 
hand.  "Sit  down,"  he  said;  and  he  opened  the 
letter  in  a  leisurely  manner  as  if  he  anticipated  a 
pleasure  in  reading  it.  Once  he  glanced  up  with 
an  inquiring  expression  when  Estabrook  moved 
his  chair  unusually  close  to  the  desk  before  he  sat 
down;  and  then,  as  if  he  understood,  he  again 
gave  his  attention  to  Campbell's  letter. 

And  presently  he  was  asking  pleasantly,  "Well, 
Mr.  Estabrook?" 

"I'm  assuming,"  said  Estabrook,  "that  you'd 
like  to  put  your  hand  on  the  man  who  slew  old 
Pheneas  Drumm." 

The  chief  seemed  nonplussed.  "Why — yes!" 
he  said.  "Yes,  certainly." 

"And — may  I  ask? — your  men  havert't  any 
clew  to  his  whereabouts  as  yet?" 

"A  man  from  the  News — Cook — was  asking 
me  that  an  hour  ago.  I  believe  they  haven't.  The 
fact  is,  you  men  labor  under  a  good  many  delu- 
sions as  to  criminals  and  clews.  They're  often 
pretty  hard  to  locate.  A  first-class  crook  is  even 
harder  to  find  than  a  first-class  police  officer — 
and  if  you  believe  the  News,  that's  pretty  hard." 

Estabrook  interposed  diplomatically:  "It  hap- 
pens that  I  don't  believe  the  News." 

"All  right.  You  see,  the  crooks  we  have  to 
deal  with,  or  try  to  deal  with,  are  so  disobliging 
that  they  don't  take  their  cues  from  the  crooks  on 
the  stagehand  in  romances.  They  don't  haunt  the 

195 


Whispers 

scenes  of  their  crimes,  so  far  as  we  can  learn; 
they  don't  jump  when  they  see  their  shadows; 
they  don't  tremble  when  they're  spoken  to.  My 
own  theory  is  that  they're  so  callous  they  don't 
mind  much  of  anything — generally  speaking.  In 
a  crowd  of  a  thousand  men  I'd  no  more  expect 
to  pick  out  a  man  who'd  commit  murder  than  I'd 
expect  to  pick  out  a  man  who'd  beat  his  wife  or 
cheat  his  customers.  Each  man  in  these  classes 
thinks  that  what  he  does  is  his  own  business — and 
it's  pretty  hard  to  convince  him  of  the  contrary." 

Estabrook  nodded  and  smiled.  "I'm  sure  that's 
true,"  he  said.  Then,  after  a  thoughtful  pause, 
he  added,  "But  it  happens  that  the  man  who  slew 
Pheneas  Drumm  is  rather  in  a  class  by  himself." 

The  chief  looked  at  his  caller  with  a  certain 
long-suffering  patience.  Plainly  he  regarded  him 
as  a  man  who  had  been  reading  "Sherlock 
Holmes"  somewhat  to  his  disadvantage.  "Pos- 
sibly," he  said. 

"I'm  quite  sure  of  it,"  saii  Estabrook. 

"Are  you,  indeed?"  inquired  the  chief  in  a  tone 
not  free  from  irony.  "And  may  I  ask  how  you're 
sure?" 

"Because  I  know  the  man  rather  well.' 

The  chief  simply  stared. 

"Not  only  that,  but  I  know  where  he  is,  what 
he's  doing — in  a  general  way — and  what  move- 
ments he  contemplates.  More:  I'm  prepared  to 
take  any  officer  you'll  choose  to  where  he  can  ar- 

196 


A  Compact  with  the  Chief 

rest  the  man.  I'd  only  like  to  make  one  condi- 
tion, Chief — that  is,  if  you  thought  it  a  fair  one." 

The  chief's  countenance  had  become  inscrutable. 
"And  what's  the  condition?"  he  asked. 

"It's  purely  a  newspaper  man's  condition — or 
at  least  that's  the  way  it  will  appear  to  you.  I 
needn't  describe  to  you  the  rivalry  which  usually 
exists  between  newspapers  occupying  the  same 
field.  Between  the  Fidette  and  the  News,  for  ex- 
ample?" 

"Go  ahead." 

"As  I'm  working  for  the  Fidette  people — fine 
people  to  work  for,  by  the  way — I'd  like  to  man- 
age so  that  the  story  of  the  capture  and  the  con- 
fession and  the  rest  of  it  should  appear  exclu- 
sively in  the  Fidette." 

If  the  chief  considered  this  scheme  feasible  he 
did  not  say  so;  yet  Estabrook  thought  he  read  in 
his  eyes  a  dawning  approval  and  acquiescence, 
coupled  with  a  lingering  skepticism  of  all  that 
his  visitor  had  said. 

"My  idea  is  this:  I  will  take  an  officer  or  two 
— one  will  be  enough,  since  the  man  is  as  harmless 
as  a  child — to  my  room  at  a  certain  hour  to-night. 
The  man  will  be  there.  He  will  be  arrested.  But 
he  will  be  held  quietly  in  my  room  until  three  or 
four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  without  any  report 
having  been  made  to  you  or  to  any  of  your  subor- 
dinates. The  purpose  of  this  you'll  see  at  a 
glance.  The  story  will  be  in  the  office  of  the 

197 


Whispers 

Vidette  in  time  for  to-morrow's  issue.  It  will  not 
be  in  the  office  of  the  News  until  too  late  for  to- 
morrow's issue.  We'll  have  the  story  exclusively. 
That's  all." 

The  chief  cast  a  meditative  glance  at  his  desk 
and  presently  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  Estabrook's. 
"That  will  be  all  right,"  he  said  shortly. 

Estabrook  pondered.  "I  don't  like  to  suggest 
that  all  your  men  are  not  trustworthy,"  he  said  at 
length;  "but  you  know  the  ways  of  police  reporters 
are  somewhat  uncanny,  at  times " 

The  chief  interrupted.  "I'll  take  only  two  of 
my  men  into  my  confidence.  And  those  two 
men  ...  I  won't  say  they're  brighter  than  the 
police  reporters;  but  I  will  say  they  possess  the 
superior  merit  of  knowing  how  to  be  silent.  To 
avoid  mistakes  of  any  sort  you  shall  meet  these 
two  men  now." 

He  pressed  a  button  on  his  desk,  and  the  form 
of  the  secretary  almost  immediately  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 

"I'd  like  to  speak  to  Meade  and  Hankins," 
said  the  chief.  And  then  he  explained  to  Esta- 
brook: "Meade  and  Hankins  are  secret  service 
men.  I  brought  them  in  only  a  week  ago  from 
outlying  precincts.  I  know  them  to  be  keen  fel- 
lows, and  they  will  serve  your  purpose  nicely, 
since  they  and  the  police  reporters  don't  know 
each  other  at  all.  Their  movements  will  attract 

198 


A  Compact  with  the  Chief 

as  little  attention  as  if  they  were  well-behaved 
visitors  from  out  of  town." 

Estabrook's  eyes  were  still  beaming  when  the 
two  officers  entered  the  office;  and  they  did  not 
cease  to  beam  their  increasing  approval  when  he 
listened  to  what  the  chief  had  to  say  to  them. 

"Mr.  Estabrook,  here,"  said  the  chief,  "knows 
of  the  whereabouts  of  a  man  we  want  to  arrest. 
He'll  make  an  appointment  with  you " 

"At  Madam  Joan's  Hotel,  at  twelve  o'clock 
to-night,"  said  Estabrook. 

"And  you  are  to  arrest  your  man  and  hold  him 
in  the  room  where  you  find  him  until  three 
o'clock " 

"May  we  say  three-thirty?"  interrupted  Esta- 
brook. 

" — Until  three-thirty  in  the  morning.  Then 
you'll  remove  him  quietly  to  the  central  station. 
You'll  act  throughout  with  perfect  secrecy." 

Estabrook  arose  and  shook  hands  with  the  men. 
"At  Madam  Joan's  Hotel  at  twelve  o'clock,"  he 
repeated,  and  he  added;  "and  ask  for  Estabrook, 
Room  361." 

After  he  had  thanked  the  chief  and  had  moved 
toward  the  door,  Estabrook  turned  for  a  final 
glance  at  the  heavy  figure  behind  the  flat-topped 
desk.  The  chief's  glance,  following  him,  was  an 
odd  combination  of  seriousness  and  a  thinly  veiled 
irony. 

He  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  pause  and 
199 


Whispers 

say,  "Chief,  this  man — the  one  we're  going  to 
arrest,  you  know — is  the  oddest  chap  of  his  kind 
you  ever  saw.     He  jumps  when  he  sees  his  shadow 
and  he  trembles  when  he's  spoken  to!" 
And  then  he  was  gone. 


200 


Chapter  XXIII 
"Pieces  of  Eight" 

IT  lacked  a  little  to  seven  o'clock  that  evening 
when  Estabrook  appeared  at  Madam  Joan's. 
He  had  spent  a  considerable  part  of  the  afternoon 
in  following  the  body  of  Pheneas  Drumm  to  its 
final  resting-place  in  the  city's  largest  cemetery — a 
place  far  out  on  a  suburban  hill.  He  had  scarcely 
hoped  to  discover  any  facts  which  might  be  of 
value  to  him;  he  had  gone,  as  he  put  it  to  himself, 
to  be  on  the  safe  side.  And  he  had  been  astounded 
to  note  how  great  a  number  of  persons  had  mani- 
fested an  interest  in  the  funeral.  He  had  been 
unable  to  gain  admittance  to  the  undertaking  par- 
lors where  the  services  had  been  conducted.  The 
place  had  been  thronged.  He  had  obtained  a  seat 
in  the  car  belonging  to  the  undertaker  and  had 
been  enabled  to  go  to  the  cemetery  without  delay. 
He  had  achieved  this  by  invoking  the  power  of 
that  open  sesame,  his  reporter's  badge.  And  he 
had  learned  that  a  very  appropriate  service  had 
been  conducted  by  a  city  missionary — formerly 
pastor  to  a  wealthy  congregation  in  a  good  neigh- 

201 


Whispers 

borhood — who  had  dwelt  very  aptly  upon  the  late 
Mr.  Drumm's  association  with  masks,  and  with 
the  soothing  thought  that  life  itself  is  a  mask 
which  mankind  puts  aside  only  when  the  realities 
which  lie  beyond  the  grave  are  to  be  entered  upon. 

At  Madam  Joan's  he  encountered  Cape,  where- 
upon he  drew  a  long  sigh  of  relief.  He  had  not 
feared  that  Cape  would  fail  him,  but  he  was  wil- 
ling to  confess  to  himself  that  as  the  moment  for 
the  last  act  in  the  drama  drew  near  he  was  becom- 
ing a  bit  nervous.  And  now,  glancing  appraisingly 
at  Cape,  he  read  the  fact  that  his  protege — if  he 
might  apply  that  term — was  in  no  danger  of  wa- 
vering in  his  decision. 

"We'll  have  dinner  right  away,"  said  Estabrook 
cheerfully,  "though  in  passing  I  want  to  speak  to 
Madam  Joan.  There's  just  one  more  detail  to 
be  attended  to " 

They  encountered  Madam  Joan  just  at  that 
moment.  They  had  met  in  Estabrook's  room,  and 
they  were  passing  through  Madam's  private  of- 
fice on  their  way  to  the  public  dining-room. 
Madam  had  just  turned  aside  from  a  conference 
with  two  gentlemen,  both  of  whom  Estabrook  re- 
membered to  have  seen  before,  though  he  knew 
the  name  of  only  one  of  them. 

The  first  was  Beakman  of  the  News.  The  sec- 
ond was  the  News  reporter  whom  he  had  encoun- 
tered in  the  shop  of  the  late  mask-dealer.  The 
two  appeared  to  have  something  further  to  say 

202 


"Pieces  of  Eight" 

to  Madam,  and  they  now  waited  until  after  she 
should  have  spoken  to  Estabrook. 

Madam  was  all  sprightliness  and  good  cheer. 
"I  wanted  to  ask  Monsieur  if  he  had  found  every- 
thing to  his  liking,"  she  said,  smiling  rather  too 
brilliantly  into  Estabrook's  face.  She  scarcely 
seemed  to  see  Cape. 

"I  couldn't  be  better  pleased,"  declared  Esta- 
brook. His  complete  satisfaction  was  unmistak- 
able. Then  he  lowered  his  voice  so  that  even 
Madam  caught  his  words  with  difficulty.  "I 
want  to  take  this  occasion  to  advise  you,  Mad- 
am," he  said,  "that  a  number  of  gentlemen  vill 
hold  a  sort  of  conference " 

He  glanced  lightly  over  Madam's  shoulder. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  Beakman  and  his  companion 
were  much  too  frankly  curious  as  to  the  nature  of 
his  confidences  with  Madam  Joan. 

Madam  noted  his  glance.  "Monsieur  need 
feel  no  uneasiness,"  she  said.  "That  gentleman 
is  Monsieur  Beakman." 

"I  know.    And  his  companion?" 

"His  companion "  Madam  tapped  her  fore- 
head with  her  finger-tips  in  droll  confusion,  her  ex- 
pression meanwhile  conveying  the  assurance  that 
Monsieur  Beakman's  companion  was  really  a  per- 
son of  no  moment.  She  smiled  with  relief. 
" — Monsieur  Cook.  That  is  his  name.  He  is 
one  of  Monsieur  Beakman's  subordinates." 

Estabrook  nodded.  He  recalled  the  name.  It 
203 


Whispers 

was  that  of  the  police  reporter  on  the  News.  He 
had  first  heard  it  on  the  occasion  of  his  visit  to 
the  News  office,  when  Beakman  was  holding  a 
conversation  with  Cook  over  the  telephone.  He 
shifted  his  position  a  little  so  that  the  movement 
of  his  lips  should  be  unseen  by  Beakman  and 
Cook.  "I  wanted  to  advise  Madam,"  he  re- 
peated, "that  a  number  of  gentleman  will  hold  a 
sort  of  conference  in  my  room  late  this  evening." 
He  smiled.  "I  wanted  to  be  sure  that  Madam 
wouldn't  suspect  there  were  conspirators  in  the 
house." 

She  laughed  merrily.  She  touched  her  lips  with 
an  effect  of  sprightliness  with  a  finger  which  was 
much  too  heavy  for  that  purpose.  The  gesture 
meant  that  she  would  be  very  discreet.  Yet  she 
looked  after  Estabrook  as  he  and  his  companion 
made  their  way  toward  the  public  dining-room 
with  an  expression  of  amused  disdain  in  her  eyes; 
and  to  Beakman  and  Cook  she  said  with  an  as- 
tounding lack  of  reserve :  "It  was  nothing.  Mon- 
sieur Estabrook  merely  wished  to  notify  me  that 
he  would  have  a  number  of  friends  dropping  in 
at  his  room  to-night." 

And  so  it  happened  that  while  Estabrook  and 
Cape  were  about  to  enter  upon  an  intimate  ex- 
change of  words  in  the  public  dining-room  below, 
Madam  Joan  was  finding  herself  confronted  by 
a  truly  extraordinary  request  by  Monsieur  Beak- 
man. Beakman  requested  nothing  less  than  that 

204 


"Pieces  of  Eight" 

Madam  make  room  for  Cook  immediately  in  the 
room  adjacent  to  Estabrook's — adjacent  to  it  and 
separated  from  it  only  by  a  thin  wooden  partition. 
And  Madam  Joan,  gazing  at  Beakman  with 
round,  amazed  eyes,  into  which  an  expression  of 
mischievous  humor  gradually  stole,  agreed  that 
Monsieur  Cook  should  have  the  desired  room 
without  delay. 

Over  their  dinner  Estabrook  questioned  Cape 
cheerfully  as  to  how  he  had  spent  the  afternoon. 
He  was  amazed  by  what  he  heard: 

"I  went  to  my  uncle's  funeral,"  said  Cape. 

"No!"  exclaimed  Estabrook,  frowning  and 
thinking  very  hard. 

"Yes,  I  did.  I  suppose  that  sort  of  sentimental 
thing  has  gone  out  of  date  a  good  deal;  but  when 
I  remembered  that  I  was  the  only  living  relative 
he  had  I  decided  that  I  ought  to  go  to  his 
funeral,  whether  I  wanted  to  go  or  not." 

Estabrook  continued  to  consider  a  moment 
longer;  then  he  said  with  a  certain  decisiveness — 
"I'm  sure  you're  right.  If  you  felt  you  ought  to 
go,  of  course  you  did  the  right  thing."  He  added 
presently,  "and  you  don't  think  you  were  conspicu- 
ous in  anyway?" 

"Very  far  from  it,"  declared  Cape.  "You 
wouldn't  have  dreamed  so  many  people  would  be 
there.  It  was  curiosity,  I  suppose.  If  I  hadn't 
gone  pretty  early  I'd  never  have  gotten  in  at  all. 
There  were  scores  of  men  and  women  there — 

205 


Whispers 

rather  ordinary  appearing  people,  too.  There's 
no  possibility  that  I  was  singled  out  in  any  way. 
There  was  a  regular  service  by  a  minister,  who 
made  a  wonderfully  good  address.  On  the  whole 
I'm  glad  I  went." 

"But  you  didn't  go  to  the  cemetery?" 

"No.  There  wasn't  any  provision  made  for 
that,  of  course.  I  couldn't  even  follow  in  a  street- 
car, because  I  didn't  know  where  the  cemetery 
was."  His  statement  had  closed  on  a  gloomy 
note;  and  for  a  time  he  sat  silent,  yielding  to  a 
despondent  mood.  But  almost  immediately  he 
pulled  himself  together.  "It's  all  right,  however," 
he  said.  "After  all,  it  was  only  a  formality." 

Estabrook  was  regarding  him  musingly.  "And 
you  know  there'll  be  another  formality  for  you  to 
go  through  with  before  very  long — I  venture  to 
believe  in  a  day  or  two." 

"You  mean? "   asked   Cape,   a   shrinking 

expression  showing  on  his  countenance. 

"Nothing  unpleasant.  Far  from  it.  You'll 
have  to  go  forward  and  claim  your  uncle's  estate. 
I  mean,  after  the  legal  machinery  has  been  set 
turning  and  the  court  says  to  you  in  effect,  'Now, 
Mr.  Cape,  step  forward  and  let  us  hear  what  you 
have  to  say.' ' 

The  recurring  thought  of  his  uncle's  estate 
seemed  almost  to  bewilder  Cape  for  a  moment. 
He  said  musingly — "His  estate — I  wonder  if  it 
will  prove  to  amount  to  anything,  after  all." 

206 


"Pieces  of  Eight" 

"I'll  be  able  to  let  you  know  very  soon,"  said 
Estabrook.  "Our  routine  men  call  at  the  courts 
every  day  to  see  what  business  has  been  transacted. 
When  they  get  around  to  the  Drumm  case  the 
facts  will  be  brought  into  the  office.  That's  al- 
ways true  of  every  big  newspaper." 

They  were  silent  for  a  moment.  They  had  had 
the  dining-room  to  themselves;  but  now  a  casual 
diner  had  entered,  and  dropping  a  copy  of  one  of 
the  evening  newspapers  on  the  table  before  him, 
had  taken  a  seat  not  far  from  Estabrook  and  his 
companion.  At  the  same  time  the  voices  of  news- 
boys, rising  as  if  their  springs  of  action  had  been 
newly  wound,  drifted  up  from  the  street.  A  final 
edition  was  being  sold. 

"You'd  think  the  world  had  come  to  an  end, 
from  the  noise  he  makes,"  commented  Estabrook, 
with  an  ear  turned  toward  the  noise  from  the 
street.  "Yet  it's  likely  only  the  routine  final  edi- 
tion." 

"And  nothing  in  it,"  remarked  the  diner  who 
had  just  entered.  He  rather  unceremoniously 
tossed  his  copy  of  the  paper  over  to  the  table  at 
which  Estabrook  and  Cape  sat. 

But  there  was  something  in  it.  There  was  the 
public  administrator's  first  report  on  the  estate  of 
the  late  Pheneas  Drumm. 

Estabrook  glanced  at  his  companion  warningly; 
and  then  the  two  together  read  the  item  relating 
to  the  dead  man's  estate.  Figures  in  the  head- 

207 


Whispers 

line  arrested  their  attention:  $600,000.  That 
was  the  estimated  value  of  the  estate.  Certain 
safe  deposit  boxes  had  been  opened  and  examined. 
There  was  one  of  these  in  each  of  several  finan- 
cial institutions.  The  details  followed  briefly  and 
simply.  Much  of  the  estate  was  represented  by 
stocks  which  were  of  questionable  value.  Another 
portion  was  represented  by  stocks  which  at  one 
time  had  been  supposed  to  be  all  but  worthless,  but 
which,  as  a  result  of  certain  developments,  had 
mounted  sky  high.  And  there  were  bonds  and 
titles  and  other  assets,  together  with  a  consider- 
able quantity  of  currency.  Conservatively  esti- 
mated, the  report  declared  in  conclusion,  the  value 
of  the  estate  would  amount  to  $600,000. 

Cape  gazed  at  his  companion  in  amazement. 
He  leaned  forward  and  whispered  in  a  tone  of 
bewilderment — "Six  hundred  thousand  dollars!" 

And  Estabrook,  with  a  glance  of  caution  toward 
the  other  diner  in  the  room,  echoed  back — but  in 
a  tone  of  assurance — "Six  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars!" 

A  light  began  to  beam  in  Cape's  eyes,  and  Esta- 
brook mused  "He  must  be  a  mercenary  sort  of 
chap,  after  all."  But  what  Cape  said  was 

"If  it  isn't  all  a  dream — if  it  turns  out  to  be 
even  one-tenth  true,  I  know  a  fellow  who's  got  a 
couple  of  partnerships  in  his  mind  who  isn't  going 
to  wait  any  longer  to  have  his  ship  come  in!" 


208 


Chapter  XXIV 
Somebody  Blunders 

THE  little  Swiss  clock  in  Madam  Joan's 
office  struck  the  hour  delicately:  in  a  voice 
which,  was  nicely  calculated  not  to  shock  the  nerves 
or  to  awaken  the  consciences  of  her  patrons  in 
adjoining  rooms,  where  murmurs  as  of  a  tranquil 
sea  arose.  Madam  looked  at  the  face  of  the 
clock  graciously,  as  if  she  had  been  accosted  by  a 
really  beloved  patron.  "Twelve  o'clock!"  she 
said.  She  had  not  realized  that  the  midnight  hour 
had  come  so  soon. 

She  seemed  for  the  moment  a  creature  of  gentle 
contentment  and  repose,  though  you  would  have 
known,  if  you  had  been  really  acquainted  with  her, 
that  her  mind  was  in  a  score  of  places  at  that  very 
moment,  and  that  she  knew  almost  in  detail  what 
was  transpiring  in  every  part  of  her  mysterious 
house  of  entertainment.  For  example,  she  knew 
that  Estabrook  and  Cape  were  now  in  Estabrook's 
room,  awaiting  the  visitors  of  whom  Estabrook 
had  spoken  to  her  in  a  rather  significant  manner. 
She  also  knew  that  the  young  man  who  was  Incon- 
spicuously glancing  at  the  pages  of  the  hotel  regis- 
ter, as  if  he  were  trying  to  find  the  name  of  a 

209 


Whispers 

friend,  was  in  fact  not  paying  the  slightest  heed 
to  the  names  which  passed  before  his  vision.  The 
young  man  was  Cook,  of  the  News,  and  he  was 
furtively  waiting  to  obtain  a  view  of  the  guests 
whom  Estabrook  was  expecting. 

The  clock  had  just  finished  striking  the  hour 
when  two  very  quiet  gentlemen,  emerging  from 
the  elevator,  approached  Madam  Joan's  desk. 
They  were  Meade  and  Hankins;  quite  unofficial- 
looking  officers  who,  according  to  the  chief's  as- 
surance to  Estabrook,  would  be  unknown  to  news- 
paper men — even  to  the  police  reporters. 

It  was  Meade  who  addressed  Madam  Joan  in 
a  voice  which  was  low  and  civil,  rather  than  well- 
modulated.  "Is  Mr.  Estabrook  in?"  he  asked. 

Madam  smiled.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "and  he  left 
word  that  if  there  were  callers  they  were  to  be 
directed  immediately  to  his  room.  If  Messieurs 
will  take  the  elevator  .  .  .  the  room  is  No.  361 
on  the  floor  above." 

They  thanked  Madam  and  withdrew;  and 
Cook,  who  had  glanced  up  from  his  leisurely  in- 
spection of  the  register,  commented,  entirely  with- 
in his  mind:  "Oh — the  chief's  two  new  plain- 
clothes  men!"  Which  is  proof  that  chiefs  of  po- 
lice, like  all  other  mortals,  will  fall  into  minor 
errors  from  time  to  time. 

When  Meade  and  Hankins  were  gone,  Cook 
exchanged  significant  glances  with  Madam  Joan, 
and  then  he,  too,  was  gone.  He  had  betaken 

210 


Somebody  Blunders 

himself,  as  Madam  knew  to  a  certainty,  to  the 
room  adjoining  Estabrook's — the  room  which  she 
had  caused  to  be  vacated  as  some  slight  incon- 
venience, because  Monsieur  Beakman  had  desired 
her  to  do  so. 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Estabrook  to  the  two  offi- 
cers, after  they  had  been  introduced  to  Cape,  "that 
you  gentlemen  are  in  for  a  rather  tedious  wait." 
He  had  closed  his  door  quietly,  after  taking  a 
glance  up  and  down  the  hall.  He  had  chanced  to 
address  the  remark  to  Hankins ;  but  Meade,  who 
seemed  to  be  by  nature  a  sort  of  spokesman,  was 
the  one  who  replied: 

"We're  used  to  that.  If  you  can  stand  it,  we 
can." 

"There  are  cigars  there,  and  cigarettes,"  added 
Estabrook;  "and  if  there's  anything  else  necessary 
to  your  comfort  I'll  be  glad  to  provide  it." 

It  seemed  that  Hankins  did  not  care  to  smoke 
just  then;  but  he  accepted  a  cigar  and  dropped  it 
into  his  pocket  with  a  casual  and  experienced  air. 
Meade  was  in  the  mood  to  smoke,  it  appeared,  and 
in  almost  no  time  he  had  succeeded  in  making  him- 
self entirely  at  ease.  He  was  the  first  of  the  two 
officers  to  address  an  inquiry  to  his  host.  "You 
don't  mean  to  say  that  this  young  fellow  here — 
Mr.  Cape,  did  you  say? — is  the  man  we're  after?" 

"Yes,"  said  Estabrook  shortly.     He  could  not 

211 


Whispers 

understand  clearly  why  it  cost  him  a  struggle  to 
reply  to  that  question. 

"You  understand,"  added  Meade,  "that  our  in- 
structions from  the  chief  were  to  make  the  arrest 
right  away — and  then  to  hold  the  prisoner  here 
until  you  were  ready  to  have  him  taken  to  the  sta- 
tion." 

"Very  well,"  said  Estabrook;  and  he  glanced 
rather  unhappily  at  Cape. 

"It's  all  right,"  declared  Cape.  "You  needn't 
mind." 

"Then,"  said  Meade,  addressing  Cape,  "you'll 
understand  you're  under  arrest." 

"And  that  is  all  that  will  be  necessary  now,  Of- 
ficer," interposed  Estabrook.  "I'll  answer  for  the 
prisoner's  behavior." 

"I  understand,"  assented  Cape,  speaking  as  if 
the  words  were  a  lesson  he  had  learned,  "that  I 
am  under  arrest." 

Both  officers  were  now  regarding  Cape  with 
frank  curiosity.  Yet  neither  of  the  two  was  re- 
garding him  with  such  utterly  amazed  curiosity 
as  Cook  of  the  News  was  regarding  him  at  pre- 
cisely that  moment,  through  an  improvised  peep- 
hole in  the  thin  partition  which  he  had  prepared 
during  the  afternoon.  Nor  was  Cape's  face  the 
only  object  upon  which  Cook's  eyes  rested.  His 
experienced  glance  had  been  drawn  to  a  neatly 
folded  manuscript,  on  the  sort  of  copy-paper 
which  every  newspaper  man  recognizes,  on  the 

212 


Somebody  Blunders 

table  at  which  Estabrook  was  sitting.  And  of  all 
the  five  faces  in  the  group — including'the  one  face 
which  was  invisible  to  the  others — not  one  ap- 
proximated, as  an  interesting  study,  the  face  of 
Cook. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  those  neatly-folded  sheets 
of  newspaper  copy-paper  contained  Estabrook's 
account  of  the  slaying  of  Pheneas  Drumm.  The 
story  was  as  complete  and  effective  as  Estabrook 
knew  how  to  make  it,  save  that  at  one  place  there 
was  a  single  omission,  indicated  by  the  words — 
"Here  insert  Cape's  confession."  The  confession, 
in  Cape's  own  writing,  had  been  set  down  on  a  sep- 
arate sheet  and  had  been  kept  apart  because  the 
man  who  wrote  it  was  not  quite  sure  that  he  was 
satisfied  with  it  as  it  stood.  He  had  written  it 
from  constant  suggestions  by  Estabrook;  and 
after  the  writing  had  been  finished — perhaps  half 
an  hour  before  the  arrival  of  the  officers — he  had 
asked  leave  to  think  about  one  or  two  of  the  state- 
ments he  had  made  in  it. 

Beside  the  folded  sheets  lay  a  quantity  of  un- 
used paper  and  half  a  dozen  large  envelopes.  For 
it  was  Estabrook's  intention  to  place  the  story  in 
an  envelope  and  seal  it  up  after  he  and  Cape  had 
arrived  at  a  final  understanding  as  to  the  wording 
of  the  confession.  That  he  was  an  exception 
among  reporters  in  that  he  occasionally  sealed  a 
story  in  an  envelope  is  no  more  true  than  that  he 

213 


Whispers 

was  an  exceptional  reporter  in  many  other  mat- 
ters. 

Now,  totally  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  his  very 
laboriously-laid  plans  were  in  a  fair  way  of  going 
wrong,  he  turned  to  Cape.  "You've  only  to  say 
the  word  as  to  your  confession,"  he  said,  "and  my 
work  is  done." 

But  Cape  met  his  reassuringly  candid  glance 
with  a  frown  of  perplexity.  "If  I  could  only  feel 
a  little  more  certain  of  that  one  sentence  in  what 
I  wrote "  he  said. 

"It's  all  right,"  declared  Estabrook  decisively. 
And  then,  as  if  to  convince  the  other  man,  he 
drew  a  folded  sheet  from  his  pocket.  It  bore 
the  word  "insert"  at  the  top,  and  was  in  Cape's 
handwriting.  "It's  all  right,"Tie  repeated,  unfold- 
ing the  sheet.  "What's  wrong?"  And  he  read 
aloud : 

"  'When  he  turned  toward  the  table  at  which 
he  had  been  sitting  and  reached  for  the  weapon  in 
the  open  drawer,  I  feared  for  my  life.  It  was  then 
that  I  realized  that  my  hand  rested  upon  a  piece 
of  metal.  I  grasped  the  piece  of  metal  without 
stopping  to  think,  and  then  I  struck  in  the  dark. 
He  had  just  put  the  light  out.  I  heard  him  fall' 
— that  was  what  you  objected  to,  I  believe.  Now, 
what's  wrong  about  it?" 

"I'm  not  certain  it's  wrong,"  admitted  Cape. 
"In  fact,  I'm  pretty  certain  it's  precisely  true.  But 
it's  a  guess,  all  the  same.  I  don't  know  that  he 

214 


Somebody  Blunders 

reached  for  a  weapon.  I  didn't  know  what  he 
was  doing.  It  was  dark.  I'd  like  to  believe  that 
I  was  fully  justified — but  I  don't  know'' 

Estabrook  became  thoughtful.  Here  was  the 
case  of  a  man  who  had  become  involved  in  a  ter- 
rible experience,  and  who  wished  honestly  to  set 
himself  right  as  far  as  it  was  within  his  power  to 
do  so.  Here  was  the  beginning  of  a  conscientious 
course,  of  a  deed  of  reparation,  of  hope  for  a  new, 
blameless  beginning. 

"You  see,"  added  Cape,  "it  was  your  telling 
me  that  made  it  plain — his  having  a  revolver,  I 
mean,  and  his  intention  to  use  it.  It  was  too  dark 
for  me  to  see.  And  if  I'm  to  tell  anything  at  all 
now,  I  want  to  tell  nothing  but  the  truth." 

Estabrook  nodded.  "I'm  trying  to  obtain  for 
you  the  benefit  of  the  actual  conditions,"  he  said. 
"I'm  looking  ahead  to  the  time  when  a  jury  will 
listen  to  the  story  of  what  occurred  in  Drumm's 
shop.  But  if  you  are  not  fully  satisfied " 

He  took  his  folded  story  from  the  table  and 
slipped  it  thoughtfully  into  an  envelope.  "We'll 
go  over  the  confession  again,"  he  said.  "I  can 
turn  it  in  separately." 

He  dropped  the  sealed  envelope  on  the  table 
and  seemed  for  the  moment  to  dismiss  it  com- 
pletely from  his  mind.  Again  he  turned  to  the 
sheet  which  held  the  confession;  and  after  a  mo- 
ment's meditation  he  said — 

"Suppose  you  put  it  like  this:  'When  he  turned 
215 


Whispers 

the  light  out  I  felt  sure  that  it  was  part  of  a  plan 
to  harm  me.  I  was  greatly  alarmed.  And  it  was 
then  that  I  realized  that  my  hand  was  resting  upon 
a  piece  of  metal.  I  grasped  the  piece  of  metal 
without  stopping  to  think  and  struck  the  blow' — 
How  would  that  do?" 

"That's  it!"  cried  Cape.  "That's  true.  That's 
just  the  way  it  was." 

"Very  well,"  said  Estabrook.  "Suppose  you 
make  the  change."  And  he  passed  the  sheet 
across  the  table. 

Cape's  unsteady  hands  took  the  sheet.  He 
searched  for  the  paragraph  which  he  wished  to 
change ;  and  having  found  it  he  was  compelled  to 
ponder  laboriously  before  he  could  shape  the  new 
sentence  which  Estabrook  had  suggested.  His 
hand  traveled  slowly  and  more  than  once  he 
ooked  up  and  asked  Estabrook  for  the  right  word. 

He  was  still  writing  painstakingly,  and  the  two 
officers  were  looking  on  in  the  wholly  detached 
manner  in  which  men  of  deeds  are  apt  to  regard 
men  of  words,  when  a  discreet  tap  sounded  on  the 
door. 

Estabrook  responded;  and  through  the  narrow 
aperture  provided  by  his  very  limited  opening  of 
the  door  he  looked  into  the  pleasantly  apologetic 
eyes  of  Madam  Joan. 

"So  sorry  to  disturb  Monsieur,"  said  Madam, 
"but  someone  wishes  to  speak  to  Monsieur  Esta- 
brook at  the  telephone  in  my  office." 

216 


Somebody  Blunders 

He  had  no  thought  of  refusing  to  respond.  It 
would  be  a  call  from  the  city  room  of  the  Fidette, 
of  course.  It  would  be  Campbell,  seeking  infor- 
mation, or  assurance  .  .  . 

"I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,"  he  called  back  into 
the  room.  And  after  closing  his  door  behind  him 
he  accompanied  Madam  Joan  along  the  hall  and 
down  the  stairway.  ' 

He  could  not  escape  the  impression  that 
Madam  was  trying  to  delay  him.  She  walked 
slowly,  yet  with  the  manner  of  one  who  does  not 
wish  to  be  left  behind.  She  talked  to  him  almost 
incessantly — though  afterward  he  could  not  recall 
anything  that  she  had  said.  For  the  moment  it 
was  his  wish  to  humor  her;  and  for  each  chirpingly 
birdlike  word  of  hers,  uttered  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  furtively  appraising  glance,  he  gave 
back  an  unruffled  reply,  though  without  any  ap- 
praising glances.  He  felt  that  he  read  Madam 
easily;  and  he  ascribed  her  chirping  manner  to  her 
wish  to  be  with  him  for  the  moment — though  he 
could  not  guess  why  she  should  have  desired  his 
companionship. 

When  he  reached  the  office  he  found  the  re- 
ceiver of  the  telephone  down.  Madam  nodded 
him  cheerfully  toward  the  instrument;  and  he 
placed  it  to  his  ear  not  without  a  very  unusual 
degree  of  curiosity. 

But  to  his  disappointment  there  was  no  response 
to  his  crisp,  "Hello!"  He  tried  again,  but  only 

217 


Whispers 

a  murmurous  silence  greeted  him;  and  at  last  the 
voice  of  Central  was  saying  monotonously:  "Num- 
ber, please." 

He  asked  anxiously — "But  wasn't  there  a  call 
for " 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  lifeless  voice  repeat- 
ing, "Number,  please." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver.  "They  didn't  wait," 
he  said  to  Madam  Joan. 

She  exhibited  just  the  right  nuance  of  distress. 
"How  provoking!"  she  said.  And  she  would 
have  commiserated  with  him,  or  volunteered  an 
explanation,  perhaps;  but  with  a  sudden  vague 
misgiving  he  hurried  away,  back  to  his  room. 

Unfortunately  his  brief  absence  had  been  quite 
sufficient  for  all  the  purposes  of  Cook  of  the  News 
at  whose  request  Madam  Joan  had  staged  the 
little  farce  of  an  imaginary  telephone  call. 

Within  a  minute  or  so  after  Estabrook  had  left 
his  room  at  the  instance  of  Madam,  Cape  and 
the  two  officers  guarding  him  had  looked  up  to 
see  the  door  open  briskly  yet  apologetically  and  a 
stranger  enter. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  the  intruder,  "but  Mr.  Esta- 
brook wants  this  envelope  on  the  table.  It's  a 
matter  of  very  great  importance " 

He  had  crossed  the  room  rapidly  as  he  spoke; 
and  he  had  taken  up  the  sealed  envelope,  together 
with  a  blank  envelope,  and  walked  out  with  it 
before  either  of  the  individuals  in  the  room  could 

218 


Somebody  Blunders 

utter  a  word.  But  in  a  surprisingly  short  time  he 
reappeared.  "It's  all  right,"  he  said;  and  again 
he  crossed  the  room  and  deposited  on  the  table  the 
identical  envelope — seemingly — which  he  had  just 
removed.  And  then  he  made  his  final  exit. 

When  Estabrook  returned  a  moment  later  there 
was  a  perplexed  frown  on  his  face.  He  took  his 
seat  without  a  word  of  explanation;  but  the  frown 
on  his  face  lingered. 

And  because  of  that  frown — and  because  they 
had  had  time  to  reflect — Messrs.  Meade  and  Han- 
kins  glanced  at  each  other  furtively  and  uncom- 
fortably. But  they  said  nothing  at  all,  and  they 
\  ere  glad  that  their  prisoner  did  not  speak  of  that 
br\»k,  surprising  intrusion.  For  it  was  beginning 
to  be  borne  in  on  their  minds  that  they  had  sadly 
blundered. 


219 


Chapter  XXV 
A  Summons  for  Estabrook 

AT  half  past  one  o'clock  Estabrook  decided 
that  he  need  not  any  longer  bear  the  strain 
of  idly  waiting.  Neither  of  his  companions  had 
spoken  a  word  for  nearly  half  an  hour.  Cape  was 
brooding  heavily,  his  eyes  fixed  abstractedly  upon 
the  carpet.  The  two  officers  were  even  less  ac- 
ceptable companions.  They  were  seemingly  as 
alert  as  they  had  been  when  they  entered  the  room, 
but  they  had  taken  refuge  behind  that  dead  silence 
which  men  of  their  profession  are  impelled  to 
cultivate.  The  house  had  become  silent  as  death. 
The  city  streets  had  become  echoless. 

He  arose  slowly.  The  signed  confession  which 
Cape  had  at  last  worded  to  his  liking  he  had  placed 
in  his  pocket.  He  took  up  the  sealed  envelope 
from  the  table  beside  him.  "I  think  I'll  turn  my 
story  in  now,"  he  said,  addressing  Meade.  Glanc- 
ing at  Cape  he  added,  "I'll  try  to  be  back  in  a 
short  time.  You  see,  I  mean  to  keep  watch  with 
you  to  the  end."  He  smiled  faintly.  Then  again 
addressing  Meade:  "If  I  should  be  prevented 
from  returning,  you'll  remain  here  until  3.30  and 

220 


A  Summons  for  Estabrook 

then  Mr.  Cape  will  accompany  you  to  the  sta- 
tion." Then  he  had  a  final  word  for  Cape:  "And 
at  the  worst,  I'll  see  you  early  to-morrow,  and 
we'll  go  into  the  matter  of  obtaining  bond  for 
you,  and  engaging  an  attorney,  and  attending  to 
whatever  else  may  need  to  be  done." 

He  was  moving  toward  the  door  when  he  stop- 
ped, startled,  and  everyone  in  the  room  stared 
amazed  at  the  door.  Again  there  had  been  a 
cautious  rap. 

He  opened  the  door  wonderingly,  and  again  he 
was  looking  into  the  eyes  of  Madam  Joan. 

"It  is  the  telephone  again,  Monsieur,"  she  said. 
"I  am  sorry  you  should  be  annoyed." 

It  would  be  Campbell,  he  concluded.  Camp- 
bell, after  the  manner  of  city  editors,  would  be  be- 
ginning to  worry  and  fret.  And  he  smiled  faintly 
over  the  thought  that  he  had  done  his  work  so 
well  and  so  completely.  He  should  be  able  to 
place  his  finished  story  in  Campbell's  hands  within 
a  few  minutes  now — as  soon  as  he  could  walk  from 
Madam  Joan's  to  the  Vidette  office. 

But  when  he  reached  Madam's  office  a  sur- 
prise awaited  him.  .For  the  voice  which  responded 
to  him  over  the  wire  was  not  Campbell's  voice. 
It  was  the  voice  of  a  stranger. 

"Mr.  Estabrook?"  asked  the  strange  voice. 

And  when  Estabrook  had  replied  the  voice  went 
on  apologetically  yet  with  a  certain  urgency: 
"You'll  pardon  me  for  troubling  you,  Mr.  Esta- 

221 


Whispers 

brook.  I  called  you  up  at  the  Vldette  office,  and 
when  I  explained  that  my  business  with  you  was 
very  urgent,  they  suggested  that  I  try  you  at 
Madam  Joan's." 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Estabrook.  "What  was 
it?" 

"I  am  Doctor  Brinsmade,  Mr.  Estabrook.  You 
may  perhaps  know  of  me?  Half  an  hour  ago  I 
was  returning  to  the  city  from  one  of  the  suburbs 
where  a  patient  lives.  Out  on  the  Morgan  Ford 
Road  my  chauffeur  stopped  the  car  and  called  my 
attention  to  a  man  lying  by  the  side  of  the  road, 
surrounded  by  a  small  group  of  persons.  They 
were  about  to  carry  the  man  into  a  large  old  house 
near  by,  and  they  were  asking  for  a  physician.  To 
be  brief,  the  man  is  pretty  low,  and  he  seems  very 
greatly  in  earnest  in  wishing  to  see  you — so  much 
so,  in  fact,  that  I  felt  I  must  try  to  locate  you.  He 
won't  give  his  name ;  he  says  it  wouldn't  mean  any- 
thing to  you.  He  says:  'Tell  him  it's  the  guy  he 
bought  a  meal  for.'  He's  very  eager  about  seeing 
you,  Mr.  Estabrook.  If  I  might  tell  him  you  will 
come  .  .  .  he's  an  appealing  sort  of  poor  devil, 
and  it's  not  likely  he'll  ever  ask  another  favor  of 
anyone." 

Estabrook's  frown  of  perplexity  suddenly  lifted. 
It  was  his  derelict  of  Madam  Joan's  public  din- 
ing-room, of  course.  And  then  his  brow  dark- 
ened again.  He  had  no  time  to  give  to  any 
man  now,  however  extreme  his  need.  Yet,  after 

222 


A  Summons  for  Estabrook 

he  had  turned  his  story  in,  why  not?  With  swift 
resolution  he  fixed  his  mind  upon  the  unknown, 
invisible  presence  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire. 
"I'll  come,  Doctor,"  he  said.  "Tell  him  I'm 
coming."  And  then  he  made  a  mental  note  of  the 
number  and  street-car  route  which  the  doctor  gave 
him. 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  rushing  impetuously 
into  the  presence  of  Campbell,  city  editor  of  the 
Vidette.  "Here  we  have  it,"  he  said,  with  his 
large  sealed  envelope  in  one  hand  and  Cape's  con- 
fession in  the  other.  "This  is  an  insert — see?"  he 
continued.  "You'll  find  everything  in  shape."  He 
thrust  his  copy  into  the  city  editor's  hands  and 
turned  unceremoniously  to  go.  "A  hurry-up  call," 
he  explained  as  he  disappeared.  And  before  the 
amazed  Campbell  could  speak  the  reporter  was 
beyond  recall. 

Chance  ordained  that,  as  he  was  waiting  for  the 
street-car  to  bear  him  out  to  the  Morgan  Ford 
Road  address,  he  should  find  himself  standing  side 
by  side  with  one  of  his  fellow-reporters  of  the 
Vidette — Ellison.  Ellison  had  been  detained  in  the 
office  later  than  usual  and  now  he  was  going  home. 

"We've  missed  the  last  regular  car,"  said  Elli- 
son, "but  the  first  owl-car  is  due  in  about  five  min- 
utes." He  yawned  loudly  and  then  added — "But 
I  thought  you  were  stopping  at  Madam  Joan's?" 

"I  am,"  replied  Estabrook.  "I'm  going  out 
223 


Whispers 

into  the  Morgan  Ford  Road  neighborhood  to  see 
a  chap  I  know."  He  added  by  an  afterthought — 
"By  the  way,  how  far  is  it — the  Morgan  Fbrd 
Road  neighborhood?" 

He  flinched  almost  as  if  from  a  blow  when  he 
was  informed  that  he  had  a  ride  of  perhaps  half 
an  hour  before  him.  Then  a  car's  headlight  be- 
came visible  around  a  curve  in  the  deserted  street, 
and  Ellison  remarked,  with  another  yawn,  "There 
she  is!" 

They  hardly  knew  each  other;  and  when  they 
had  taken  a  seat  together  on  the  car  and  were 
moving  rumblingly  on  their  way,  Ellison  re- 
marked, as  a  wedge  to  further  acquaintance — 
"I'm  glad  you  chose  the  Vidette  when  you  came 
here  to  work.  How  did  it  happen?" 

Estabrook  considered.  "I  like  to  work  on  a 
morning  newspaper  better  than  an  afternoon 
sheet,"  he  said.  "I  went  up  to  the  News  office, 
but  I  didn't  particularly  like  the  look  of  things." 

"You  probably  didn't  like  the  look  of  Beak- 
man,"  remarked  the  other,  laughing  as  if  there 
had  been  a  measure  of  humor  in  what  he  had  said. 
And  then  he  added,  in  a  tone  which  denoted  that 
he  was  now  speaking  of  a  matter  in  which  he  was 
really  interested — "By  the  way,  they're  not  get- 
ting ready  to  ring  any  wedding  bells  up  at  Madam 
Joan's,  are  they?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  said  Estabrook.  He 
added  drily,  "I  should  think  not.  Why?" 

224 


A  Summons  for  Estabrook 

"Speaking  of  Beakman  made  me  think  of  it. 
We've  all  been  wondering  if  those  two  coy  souls 
would  ever  get  up  nerve  enough  to  call  in  the 
preacher." 

"Two  coy  souls?"  echoed  Estabrook. 

"Beakman  and  Madam  Joan.  They've  been 
impetuously  drawing  together  for  the  past  ten 
years.  Everybody's  been  wondering  when  they'd 
be  able  to  brave  the  world  and  declare  them- 
selves." 

Estabrook  stared  straight  before  him  for  a  long 
instant,  and  then  he  turned  to  his  companion.  "Is 
that  straight?"  he  asked. 

Ellison  appeared  to  consider  the  other's  sud- 
den seriousness  amusing.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "so  far 
as  their  attitude  toward  each  other  is  concerned. 
So  far  as  their  ever  getting  married  goes,  that's 
a  mere  surmise.  It's  rather  an  odd  case." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"They're  both  getting  elderly,  as  you  know. 
The  odd  feature  of  the  case  is  that  either  should 
be  tempted  to  behave  foolishly.  But  each  exerts 
a  certain  fascination,  where  the  other  is  con- 
cerned." 

"You're  joking,  of  course,"  said  Estabrook. 

"Not  at  all.  There's  nothing  the  least  bit  ro- 
mantic about  it,  that's  true.  From  bits  I've 
pieced  together  during  all  these  years  I'd  inter- 
pret the  case  like  this :  Madam  Joan  is  a  fascinat- 
ing figure  in  Beakman's  eyes,  because  there's  a 

225 


Whispers 

pretty  good  chance  that  she  has  quite  a  lot  of 
money.  And  Beakman,  of  course,  hasn't  a  cent 
— he's  been  working  for  the  News  for  twenty 
years." 

Estabrook  was  listening,  seemingly  with  all  his 
mind;  yet  he  was  just  at  the  moment  recalling 
Madam's  manner  when  she  summoned  him  to 
the  telephone  on  the  occasion  when  there  was  no 
one  waiting  for  him. 

"You'll  naturally  wonder  what  equivalent 
Beakman  has  to  match  Madam's  hypothetical 
wealth,"  continued  Ellison.  "It's  position.  To 
the  crowd  that  frequents  Madam  Joan's  a  news- 
paper man  is  a  near-god.  They  conceive  him  to 
dwell  among  the  stars.  And  Madam  is  the  worst 
of  the  crowd.  To  her  Beakman  is  the  head  and 
front  of  the  News.  She's  not  capable  of  making 
distinctions,  and  Beakman  isn't  the  kind  to  hide 
his  light  under  a  bushel.  To  her  he's  the  editor. 
To  all  ignorant  persons  any  individual  connected 
with  a  newspaper  is  practically  the  whole  thing. 
Even  the  office  boy  outranks  a  bank  president, 
because  the  office  boy  gets  a  pass  once  in  a  while. 
It's  the  profession's  fatal  lure:  getting  something 
for  nothing." 

"But  about  Beakman "  interrupted  Esta- 
brook a  bit  impatiently. 

"I've  told  you  about  all  there  is  to  tell.  Beak- 
man is  holding  back  because  he  isn't  sure  Madam's 
wealth  is  sufficient  to  compensate  him  for  stoop- 

226 


A  Summons  for  Estabrook 

ing  to  the  level  of  a  boarding-house  keeper;  and 
Madam  Joan  isn't  quite  certain  whether  a  hide- 
ous beast  of  a  man,  even  though  he  be  a  news- 
paper man,  is  a  sufficient  prize  to  compensate  her 
for  the  loss  of  her  liberty  and  the  complete  ex- 
ercise of  authority  over  all  her  affairs.  I'm  mak- 
ing them  both  out  to  be  perfectly  nice  persons, 
you  see.  But  my  observation  during  a  long  pe- 
riod of  years  justifies  me  in  doing  this." 

Estabrook  gazed  out  of  the  car  window  at  the 
obscure  objects  which  went  sliding  by.  He 
wished  Ellison  wouldn't  say  anything  more.  He 
had  been  uttering  the  typical,  cynical  patter  of  a 
certain  class  of  newspaper  men:  interpreting  facts 
from  the  worst  possible  angle,  making  discredit- 
able assumptions  which  he  need  not  have  made; 
making  a  jest  of  serious  things.  He  turned  his 
head  and  glanced  at  his  companion,  whom  he  had 
not  hitherto  observed  studiously.  He  was  a  large 
man,  getting  along  toward  middle  life.  Already 
the  tissues  of  his  body  were  degenerating  into 
flabbiness.  His  naturally  good  features  had  been 
coarsened  by  long  years  of  a  kind  of  irresponsible 
thinking.  He  slouched  in  his  seat,  pressing  his 
knee  against  the  seat  in  front  of  them,  like  a  man 
who  has  lounged  his  way  through  life.  Ellison 
made  him  uncomfortable  because  of  all  these 
things:  but  more  particularly  by  the  revelation 
that  there  was  a  sort  of  affiliation  between  Beak- 
man  and  Madam  Joan. 

227 


Whispers 

He  heard  Ellison  say — "I  get  off  at  the  next 
corner."  And  then  he  was  sitting  alone.  Yet 
Ellison  returned — even  going  a  block  beyond  his 
stopping-place,  with  the  generous  impulse  to  help 
Estabrook  to  find  his  way  on  the  trip  he  was  mak- 
ing. He  told  him  where  he  should  leave  the  car 
and  what  direction  he  should  take,  and  how  far 
he  should  have  to  go.  He  had  the  virtue  of  be- 
ing thoughtful  and  generous,  after  all. 

Estabrook  rode  until  he  was  the  only  remain- 
ing passenger  in  the  car.  He  was  riding  through 
a  region  of  lumber-yards  and  foundries  and  manu- 
facturing plants.  Grimy  dwellings,  vacant  lots 
cluttered  with  rubbish  or  hidden  by  weeds,  slipped 
by.  And  at  last  the  conductor  called  his  street 
and  pulled  the  bell-cord.  He  left  the  car  and 
found  himself  standing  alone  in  an  unlighted, 
strange  region.  The  car  rumbled  on  out  of  sight. 


228 


Chapter  XXVI 
The  House  of  the  Morgan  Ford  Road 

HE  had  come  to  a  region  where  he  was  aware 
of  earth  and  air  and  sky,  as  he  had  not 
been  aware  of  these  things  within  the  confines  of 
the  city.  The  earth  was  forlorn  and  unlovely. 
Men  had  done  much  to  deface  it  here  and  but  lit- 
tle to  adorn  it.  The  air  was  cool.  The  sky  was 
ragged  with  clouds,  amid  which  a  full  moon  ap- 
peared and  reappeared,  glowing  and  fading. 

A  road  lay  before  him,  descending  into  the 
deeper  darkness  of  a  silent  hollow.  Obscure 
buildings  lay  at  a  distance  about  him,  their  lights 
all  extinguished.  He  heard  the  croaking  of  frogs 
down  in  the  hollow.  His  first  thought  was  to  turn 
aside  in  search  of  a  walk  along  the  road;  but  im- 
mediately he  abandoned  this  thought  and  took  to 
the  dusty  road  itself.  He  descended  to  the  low- 
est level  of  the  hollow,  and  then  the  road  as- 
cended again,  and  a  dim  horizon  met  his  eye.  On 
distant  slopes  isolated  street  lamps  burned  faintly, 
wavering  in  the  wind. 

He  walked  rapidly  along  the  deserted  road,  re- 
flecting anxiously  upon  the  doctor  and  the  doc- 
tor's patient.  It  seemed  to  him  ages  since  he  had 

229 


Whispers 

received  the  summons  to  respond  to  the  call  of 
the  dying  man.  It  seemed  to  him  improbable 
that  he  should  arrive  in  time;  and  yet  he  had  done 
his  best. 

At  the  top  of  another  hill  he  came  upon  clus- 
ters of  buildings.  A  range  factory,  surrounded 
by  the  homes  of  its  employees — Polaks  and  Syri- 
ans and  Greeks  and  Hungarians — lay  at  his  right. 
There  was  a  row  of  shops  at  his  left :  groceries, 
a  drug-store,  dram-shops,  a  mission  hall  of  some 
sort,  a  pool-room — the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  civi- 
lization. And  presently  he  came  upon  a  gaunt 
old  wooden  structure  of  the  cheap  boarding-house 
type:  and  here  at  last  lights  burned  in  the  win- 
dows, and  a  large  touring  car  stood  at  the  curb. 
He  could  see  obscure  figures  moving  at  the  win- 
dows. 

He  looked  for  a  number  above  the  door;  and 
while  he  looked,  vainly,  a  man  of  a  foreign  ap- 
pearance emerged  from  the  house  and  stood  be- 
fore him. 

He  was  at  a  loss  for  words  in  which  to  ask  for 
information;  but  it  occurred  to  him  to  ask,  "Is 
that  Dr.  Brinsmade's  car?"  And  he  indicated 
the  touring  car  at  the  curb. 

The  man  replied  in  the  affirmative.  "Are  you 
the  man  from  the  newspaper?"  he  added.  And 
without  waiting  for  a  reply — which  perhaps  he 
deemed  needless — he  said,  "He's  on  the  second 
floor,  the  first  room  on  your  right.  Go  up." 

230 


House  of  the  Morgan  Ford  Road 

Estabrook  climbed  the  creaking  stairway, 
guided  by  an  unguarded  gas  flame  above  and  be- 
yond him.  At  the  first  door  on  his  right  he 
paused,  bending  his  ear  closer  for  sounds  within, 
and  hearing  none.  And  then  he  softly  opened  the 
door. 

Three  persons  were  inside  the  room,  all  main- 
taining a  silence  so  complete  that  Estabrook  feared 
for  an  instant  that  he  was  too  late.  But  a  glance 
at  one  of  the  persons  in  the  room — a  man  who 
lay  in  a  sunken  mass  on  the  bed — reassured  him. 
There  lay  his  casual  acquaintance  of  Madam 
Joan's  public  dining  room,  and  his  eyes,  if  no 
other  feature,  proclaimed  that  he  still  lived. 

Estabrook  glanced  at  the  two  other  occupants 
of  the  room:  one,  a  physician,  obviously;  the  other 
the  proprietor  of  the  rooming-house,  perhaps. 

"Dr.  Brinsmade?"  inquired  Estabrook;  and 
reading  the  answer  in  a  glance,  he  added,  "I'm 
Estabrook  of  the  Fidette." 

"Our  friend  here,"  said  the  physician  in  a  cau- 
tious voice,  "will  be  relieved  to  see  you.  He's 
been  resting  rather  well  since  I  sent  for  you." 
He  had  arisen;  and  now  he  warily  approached  the 
bed. 

The  recumbent  figure  did  not  stir;  and  Esta- 
brook took  occasion  to  ask,  "Was  there  an  acci- 
dent?" 

"A  hemorrhage,"  replied  the  physician,  with- 
out removing  his  glance  from  the  figure  of  the 

231 


Whispers 

invalid.  He  added  in  a  low  voice,  "Ah,  he's  stir- 
ring." 

Estabrook  took  two  or  three  steps  forward  and* 
stood  looking  down  upon  the  man  who  lay  before 
him. 

Then  the  face  on  the  sunken  pillow  turned 
slightly  and  a  rasping  voice  said — "Hello !"  But 
the  word  was  accompanied  by  the  ghost  of  a  smile 
— like  a  little  flag  marking  the  place  where  cour- 
age was  entrenched. 

"I  have  come,"  said  Estabrook,  groping  vainly 
for  less  obvious  words. 

"Sure  you  have !"  came  back  the  waning  voice. 

The  doctor  spoke.  "Our  friend  here,"  he  said 
to  Estabrook,  "says  you're  a  funny  guy!"  It  was 
his  purpose,  clearly,  to  lift  the  dying  man  into 
companionship,  if  for  only  a  moment,  with  the 
quick  and  the  happy. 

"You're  a  funny  guy,  too !"  said  the  man  on  the 
bed,  catching  the  doctor's  eye  and  achieving  again 
that  ghost  of  a  smile.  "Sticking  by  a  guy  when 
you  could  be  making  money  somewhere  else !" 

"But  you  had  something  to  tell  Mr.  Esta- 
brook," said  the  doctor. 

"Yes."  He  turned  his  glance  upon  Estabrook. 
"I've  got  something  for  you  to  put  in  the  paper. 
I  got  it  all  wrote  out — with  the  doc's  signature 
and  the  landlord's  for  witnesses.  The  doc's 
got  it." 

Estabrook  looked  inquiringly  at  the  physician, 
232 


House  of  the  Morgan  Ford  Road 

who  was  nodding,  and  producing  from  his  pocket 
a  cheap  letter-head  covered  with  writing.  He 
passed  it  over  to  Estabrook.  But  Estabrook 
looked  at  the  man  on  the  bed.  He  felt  wholly 
in  the  dark.  "What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"You  know  the  old  false-face  guy  they  took  to 
the  morgue?" 

"Yes,  I  know." 

The  man  on  the  bed  lifted  his  hand  and  pointed 
a  fore-finger  impressively  to  his  hollow  chest. 

"You  mean ?"  said  Estabrook. 

"I  done  it.     I  cracked  his  bean  in — me." 

"Impossible!"  cried  Estabrook.  The  dying 
man's  mind  was  wandering,  of  course. 

"It's  all  down  in  writing  on  that  paper  in  your 
hand — witnessed  and  all.  I  knew  you'd  want  to 
put  it  in  the  paper.  That's  all." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  said  Estabrook  in  a  curi- 
ous tone. 

"Sure.  I  went  into  his  place  late  in  the  after- 
noon. There  was  a  bunch  of  silly  guys — getting 
ready  for  a  ball  or  something — looking  at  false 
faces  and  wigs.  And  I  saw  my  chance  and  slipped 
into  a  tall  cabinet  and  pulled  the  door  shut.  I'd 
been  figuring  on  it,  y'understand.  I  had  a  bit  of 
gaspipe  wrapped  in  a  newspaper.  There's  a  hell 
of  a  lot  of  times  there's  a  gaspipe  in  a  news- 
paper— if  you  get  me.  What  did  I  want  to  do 
it  for?  Better  ask  why  wouldn't  I  want  to  do  it. 
He  had  so  much  money  that  it  didn't  matter  which 

233 


Whispers 

pocket  he  stuck  his  hand  into,  a  wad  would  come 
up.  That's  what  everybody  said.  And  he  was 
never  known  to  help  a  poor  guy — he  wouldn't 
even  look  at  you  with  both  eyes,  he  was  that  close. 
And  I  was  hurrying  on  all  fours  to  the  potter's 
field — the  con.,  y'understand.  When  a  rich  guy 
gets  that  his  friends  all  argue  whether  he  better 
go  to  Colorado  or  Texas.  They  give  him  eggs 
and  milk.  When  a  guy  like  me  gets  it  he  just  sits 
down  in  the  doorway  of  a  vacant  house  and  waits 
for  the  wagon.  He  don't  eat  nothing.  Fine 
chance  he's  got!" 

He  broke  off  and  Estabrook  found  himself 
flinching,  because  the  poor  devil  on  the  bed  was 
now  required  to  pay  toll  in  coughing  for  the  priv- 
ilege of  using  his  voice. 

"Never  mind!"  The  narrative  was  resumed. 
"I  hid  in  the  cabinet,  and  there  I  sat  for  hours 
and  hours.  I  didn't  want  to  use  my  gas-pipe  un- 
til it  got  late.  I  thought  there  might  be  some- 
body hanging  about.  But  at  last  I  slipped  out 
of  the  cabinet  and  peeped  around  the  corner  of 
it.  Old  False  Faces  was  there.  He  didn't  look 
no  more  human  than  I  look  like  George  Wash- 
ing. He  was  bending  over  a  book,  under  a  hang- 
ing light.  And  I  began  to  slip  up  on  him." 

He  paused,  and  Estabrook,  gazing  at  him  in- 
tently, put  forth  a  hand  to  warn  the  doctor  not 
to  interrupt. 

"And  then  it  looked  like  hell  broke  loose.  The 
234 


House  of  the  Morgan  Ford  Road 

old  man  jumped  up  like  he'd  heard  me.  But  he 
didn't  look  toward  me.  He  looked  behind  him. 
For  why?  You  can  search  me.  I  couldn't  see 
what  was  behind  him — the  light  hung  so  that  I 
couldn't  see  nothing  on  the  other  side  of  the  table. 
And  then  the  old  guy  switched  the  light  out.  And 
I  made  a  rush  for  him,  for  in  the  last  second  I'd 
seen  his  hand  slip  along  the  table  and  pull  a 
drawer  out.  I  seen  something  glitter.  'Look 
out  for  his  cannon,'  I  says.  And  I  drew  back  my 
piece  of  pipe.  And  then — bing!  something  fell 
on  my  dome.  I  saw  a  million  stars.  And  then  I 
brought  my  gas-pipe  down  and  caught  the  old  guy 
the  prettiest  swat  you  ever  saw.  And  I  says  to 
myself,  'Kingdom  Come  is  where  you  get  off!' 
And  then  I  stood  there  for  a  second  in  the  dark. 
Dark?  It  was  so  dark  I  thought  I  was  drown- 
ing." 

He  paused  a  moment  as  if  to  straighten  out 
the  strands  of  his  story.  The  doctor,  standing 
a  little  in  the  background,  looked  on  with  a  glim- 
mer in  his  pensive  eyes.  He  repeated  the  words 
to  himself:  "It  was  so  dark  I  thought  I  was 
drowning."  And  he  reflected  that  it  was  a  sin- 
gularly good  and  apt  saying,  and  that  it  was 
strange  that  lost  men  often  manifested  the  surest 
touch  upon  words.  But  Estabrook,  his  eyes 
widening  with  wonder,  waited  almost  breathlessly 
for  the  continuation  of  the  invalid's  recital. 

"And  then  I  got  scared.     Did  you  ever  go  be- 

235 


Whispers 

hind  a  curtain  at  a  se-ance? — when  it  seemed  like 
the  air  was  full  of  hands?  Well,  that's  the  way 
I  felt.  It  seemed  to  me  like  a  thousand  people 
were  running  back  and  forth  like  rats,  with  soft 
pattering  feet.  I  heard  them  on  a  stairway — 
the  soft  feet.  I  heard  them  overhead.  And  I 
didn't  wait  for  nothing  more.  I  opened  a  back 
window  and  slipped  out — and  so  you  see,  I  didn't 
get  a  damned  cent  after  all.  I  might  just  as  welt 
have  let  him  live !" 

Estabrook  opened  the  sheet  in  his  hand. 

"It's  all  there,"  said  the  physician. 

The  newspaper  man  looked  down  upon  the 
harsh  face  on  its  pillow.  "I'm  glad  you  let  me 
know,"  he  said. 

"I  thought  you'd  be!" 

"And  I  want  to  come  back  a  little  later  and  talk 
to  you  .  .  .  about  Texas  and  Colorado,  you 
know." 

The  dying  man  looked  triumphantly  at  the 
physician.  "Didn't  I  say  he  was  a  funny  guy?" 
he  demanded. 

"And  I  want  to  find  a  friend  who'll  come  and 
sit  with  you — I  mean,  after  the  doctor's  gone." 

"A  friend?" 

"Just  someone  to  look  after  you,  when  I  can't 
be  here." 

A  dark  suspicion  crossed  the  haggard  face. 
"Not  one  of  them  'Come  unto  me'  sharks?" 

Estabrook  winced.  "No,  not  unless  you  want 
236 


House  of  the  Morgan  Ford  Road 

one  of  them — though  I  could  find  plenty  of  them 
who  would  just  want  to  be  kind  to  you,  who'd  not 
bother  you  at  all." 

The  physician  was  appealed  to  again:  "Didn't 
I  say  he  was  a  funny  guy?" 

But  Estabrook,  tense  with  anxiety,  turned  to 
go.  "I've  got  to  get  my  story  in  now,"  he  said; 
"I  mean,  I  got  to  put  this  in  the  paper.  But  I'll 
see  you  later."  And  then  to  the  man  who  seemed 
to  be  the  proprietor  of  the  house,  "Please  show 
me  where  I'll  find  a  telephone  1" 


237 


Chapter  XXVII 

Introducing  Mr.  Craddock 

A  MOMENT  later  he  was  in  a  battered  tele- 
phone booth  on  the  floor  below.  A  low- 
power  incandescent  globe  hung  near  his  head,  and 
under  it  he  smoothed  out  the  confession  in  his 
hand. 

He  removed  the  receiver  from  its  hook  and 
immediately  he  was  speaking:  "Central,  I've  a 
rather  long  message  to  deliver,  if  I  can  get  my 
connection.  Will  you  see  that  there  isn't  any  in- 
terruption?" 

He  was  amazed  to  note  that  his  voice  was  re- 
taining a  perfect  calm,  despite  the  fact  that  every 
fiber  in  his  body  seemed  to  be  tingling  with  anxi- 
ety and  impatience.  And  then  he  gave  the  Vi- 
dette's  night  number.  While  he  waited  he  looked 
at  his  watch.  His  heart  bounded  when  he  read 
the  hour — twenty-five  minutes  after  two.  He 
leaned  despairingly  against  the  side  of  the  booth. 
He  was  too  late  now,  almost  certainly.  And  be- 
sides, what  would  Campbell  think  of  him — of  the 
fantastically  fickle  course  he  had  seemed  to  pur- 
sue? 

His  body  straightened  with  a  jerk.  A  voice 
238 


Introducing  Mr.  Craddock 

was  replying  to  him  out  of  the  silence — a  voice 
which  was  listless,  almost  lifeless,  yet  it  was  the 
voice  of  Campbell  of  the  Fidette. 

"Oh— Mr.  Campbell! "  began  Estabrook; 

and  then  he  was  stunned  by  the  quality  which  came 
into  that  distant  voice. 

"Is  this  you,  Estabrook?  Say,  Estabrook,  do 
you  imagine  you're  playing  some  sort  of  a  child's 
game? — turning  in  a  lot  of  blank  pages  as  a  cli- 
max to  your  absurd  boasting " 

Nevertheless  it  was  good  to  hear  that  voice — 
to  feel  even  the  most  intangible  contact  with  his 
own  world,  and  to  forget  utterly  for  the  moment 
that  he  was  far  out  on  the  Morgan  Ford  Road, 
in  a  wilderness  of  mean  and  remote  things.  He 
was  about  to  blurt  out — "blank  pages!"  when 
some  subconscious  impulse  checked  him.  He 
could  not  even  begin  to  guess  what  had  happened 
to  the  story  he  had  written,  but  the  name  and 
presence  of  Madam  Joan — that  and  the  story  El- 
lison had  told  him  on  the  street-car — flashed 
across  his  consciousness.  He  had  been  tricked, 
certainly.  But  if  only  Campbell  would  listen  to 
him  and  believe  him!  If  only  at  last 

He  placed  his  lips  closer  to  the  telephone. 
"Mr.  Campbell,"  he  began  calmly,  "I've  got  the 
story  here " 

"Here?    Where?" 

"I'm   in   a   house   out   on  the   Morgan   Ford 

Road " 

239 


Whispers 

"The  Morgan— Whatf* 
"I  know  I'm  a  long  way  out- 


"It's  too  late  to  get  anything  into  the  paper, 
even  if  you  were  here  in  the  office !" 

"Oh,  not  too  late,  Mr.  Campbell!" 

"We'll  be  going  to  press  in  twenty  minutes,  or 
I'll  be  looking  For  a  job  to-morrow  at  one  o'clock  1" 

"But  Campbell — we've  got  to  get  this  story  in. 
I  can't  explain  everything  to  you  now,  but  there 
are  reasons — Mr.  Campbell,  if  you'll  stick  just 
this  once  you'll  never  regret  it.  And  here  we  are 
wasting  precious  minutes " 

Campbell's  voice  came  back,  greatly  mollified. 
"But  my  dear  chap,  it's  impossible.  It  would 
take  you  an  hour  or  more  at  this  time  of  night  to 
reach  the  office,  and  you  couldn't  telephone  in  the 
whole  story.  We'd  not  have  time  to  handle  it. 
We've  scarcely  time  to  handle  a  line." 

"You  said  twenty  minutes,  Mr.  Campbell.  Tell 
me — is  there  a  phone  on  the  copy-cutter's  desk 
upstairs?" 

"There  is — yes." 

"And  is  there  a  linotype  machine  close  to  the 
copy-cutter's  desk?" 

"Yes,  jammed  up  almost  against  it." 

"Great!  Please — please — connect  me  with  the 
phone  upstairs,  and  get  one  of  the  linotype  men 
at  the  receiver." 

"But  good  heavens,  man " 

And  then  Campbell's  voice  faded  away,  and 
240 


Introducing  Mr.  Craddock 

presently  there  was  the  clicking  sound  of  metal; 
and  then — "Hello  1"  came  a  clear  voice  into  Esta- 
brook's  ear. 

"Who  is  this?"  demanded  Estabrook. 

"Craddock — one  of  the  operators." 

Estabrook  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  for 
he  heard  Craddock  exchanging  words  with  some 
one  who  had  evidently  addressed  him.  And  then 
he  began,  "Craddock,  this  is  a  fair  specimen  of 
my  handwriting.  Do  you  get  me?" 

A  mellow  laugh  came  back  over  the  wire,  and 
Craddock's  voice  said,  "Your  handwriting  is  all 
right,  young  fellow!" 

"Well,  Craddock — get  one  of  the  fellows  to 
hold  the  receiver  to  your  ear,  and  get  ready  to 
print." 

There  was  another  parley  in  the  distance,  and 
then  Craddock's  voice  replied  again:  "Well,  go 
steady,  so  I'll  have  time  to  send  my  lines  off.  You 
know  it  won't  do  to  get  balled  up." 

"I'll  go  steady,"  said  Estabrook. 

And  then  he  listened  breathlessly  to  a  confusion 
of  noises — like  hail  striking  upon  glass;  and  he 
knew  that  Craddock  was  trying  his  keyboard  and 
releasing  the  familiar  line  of  "pi" — 

etaoinshrdlucmfwyp 

Then  a  reassuring  voice  said  deliberately, 
"Now  go  ahead!" 

He  improvised  an  introduction  for  the  story 
in  brief  phrases,  uttering  his  words  with  the  ex- 

241 


Whispers 

actness  of  a  metronome's  beat.  Presently  he  was 
reading  from  the  confession  before  him.  Word 
by  word  it  went  into  the  receiver — and  always 
he  heard,  coming  back  from  the  far  away,  the 
reassuring  tapping  of  the  keys,  as  faint  as  sounds 
in  fairyland.  There  were  seconds  when  he  felt 
he  must  explode,  from  fear  that  the  machine 
would  halt,  or  that  the  telephone  connection  would 
be  broken,  or  that  someone  would  come  into  the 
telephone  booth  and  drag  him  away  from  this 
one  critical  task  of  a  lifetime.  But  there  were 
no  interruptions,  and  after  a  seemingly  inter- 
minable time  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  confes- 
sion, and  read  off  the  name  of  the  man  who  had 
made  it,  and  the  names  of  the  witnesses. 

Then  he  added  two  final  paragraphs: 

The  slayer  lay  dying  in  a  house  at  Fillmore  ave- 
nue and  Morgan  Ford  Road  at  three  o'clock  this 
morning. 

And  then — 

There  was  a  rumor  afloat  last  night  that  the 
crime  had  been  committed  by  a  young  man  named 
Cape,  a  nephew  of  the  slain  man.  But  this  proved 
to  have  no  foundation  in  fact. 

He  waited  for  a  long,  breathless  moment,  and 
then  he  heard  Craddock's  voice  saying  compla- 
cently, "She's  gone!" 

He  could  have  danced  with  joy.  "Craddock 
old  man,"  he  said  jubilantly,  "if  the  Fidette 

242 


Introducing  Mr.  Craddock 

doesn't  buy  you  a  new  suit  of  clothes  for  this,  I 
will." 

And  Craddock  replied,  not  too  patronizingly, 
"Well-— say!  I'm  going  to  try  out  my  new  car 
next  Sunday.  The  old  one  got  a  little  out  of  date. 
If  you  want  to  see  the  sights  I'll  be  glad  to  take 
you  along." 

Estabrook  did  not  know  that  Craddock  owned 
three  houses  which  he  had  bought  with  his  own 
savings,  and  that  when  he  left  the  printing  of- 
fice in  the  afternoon  and  went  out  to  the  street  to 
meet  his  wife,  who  called  for  him  in  their  machine, 
he  looked  precisely  like  a  progressive  bank  presi- 
dent. He  could  only  whisper  back — "I'm  sorry, 
but  you  know  I  have  to  work  on  Sundays!" 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  hurried  back  for 
a  final  word  with  the  man  upstairs.  But  a  glance 
at  the  physician,  and  then  another  at  the  figure 
on  the  bed,  sufficed  to  supply  him  with  the  end 
of  the  story. 

He  returned  to  the  telephone  booth,  and  pres- 
ently he  was  in  communication  with  the  Fidette 
office  again. 

One  of  the  reporters  replied  to  him  this  time. 

"Could  I  have  a  word  with  Mr.  Campbell, 
please?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.  He's  very  busy  with  a  piece 
of  proof  just  now.  What  was  it?" 

"This  is  Estabrook  speaking.  Please  be  sure 
to  get  this  right,  will  you?  Just  one  line  in  the 

243 


Whispers 

story  Mr.  Campbell's  reading  should  be  changed. 
You  got  a  pencil?  Take  this  down  please  and 
have  it  substituted: 

"The  slayer  died  in  a  house  at  Fillmore  avenue 
and  Morgan  Ford  Road  at  three  o'clock  this 
morning." 


244 


Chapter  XXVIII 
What  the  Morning  Brought 

WHEN  he  hung  up  the  receiver  it  was  with 
the  troubling  consciousness  that  there  was 
yet  another  task  for  him  to  perform,  and  to  per- 
form immediately.  Yet  so  great  had  been  the 
strain  in  getting  his  story  into  the  Vldette  office 
that  for  a  moment  he  could  not  concentrate  his 
faculties.  And  then  in  a  flash  he  remembered. 

He  must  save  Cape  from  that  dreaded  jour- 
ney to  the  police  station.  He  must  do  this  for 
Cape's  sake,  first  of  all;  but  he  must  do  it  also 
in  order  that  he  might  utterly  destroy  the  validity 
of  the  stolen  story  which  the  News  would  almost 
certainly  print  on  the  morrow — for  he  could  not 
doubt  that  the  envelope  he  had  left  on  his  table 
had  been  abstracted  by  a  News  man,  or  at  least 
at  the  instigation  of  Beakman.  No  other  possi- 
ble suggestion  of  its  theft  was  to  be  entertained 
for  a  moment. 

And  then  he  realized,  as  he  had  done  on  count- 
less occasions  before,  how  sadly  limited  is  the 
function  of  the  telephone,  after  all.  It  was  his 
presence  in  Madam  Joan's  which  was  needed  now 

245 


Whispers 

to  tear  down  the  false  structure  which  he  had  so 
laboriously  built  up.  It  seemed  almost  impossi- 
ble that  a  word  telephoned  to  Meade  and  Han- 
kins  should  effect  the  release  of  Cape,  or  make 
plain  to  those  officers  the  fact  that  he  had  made 
a  stupendous  mistake  in  relation  to  the  young  man 
whom  they  held  in  custody. 

Moreover,  he  was  subconsciously  casting  about 
for  some  means  of  saving  himself  the  necessity 
of  confessing  to  anyone  save  Cape  himself,  and 
of  course  to  Campbell,  how  nearly  he  had  come 
to  committing  a  monstrous  blunder.  And  cer- 
tainly the  telephone  could  not  be  relied  upon  as 
a  means  of  adroit  rectification — especially  as  he 
had  so  little  time  in  which  to  act. 

He  was  about  to  take  down  the  receiver  again, 
with  the  unshaped  thought  of  calling  up  Madam 
Joan's,  and  getting  at  Meade,  when  fortune  fa- 
vored him.  Dr.  Brinsmade  passed  through  the 
room  on  his  way  out  to  the  street;  and  perceiv- 
ing Estabrook,  standing  in  an  almost  thwarted 
attitude  in  the  doorway  of  the  telephone  booth,  he 
called  out  briskly — 

"Perhaps  you're  going  my  way?" 

Estabrook's  heart  bounded.  He  had  been  vis- 
ualizing the  route  back  to  town — the  endless 
stretch  of  starkly  hideous  suburbs,  with  a  single 
line  of  street-cars  traversing  it,  at  this  time  of 
night,  perhaps  once  an  hour.  "I  must  get  back 
to  town,"  he  said.  He  ventured  to  add,  "It's 

246 


What  the  Morning  Brought 

highly  important  that  I  should  reach  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  Fidette  office  in  the  shortest  pos- 
sible time." 

"Come  and  get  in,"  was  the  physician's  only 
response.  And  he  led  the  way  out  to  the  street. 

In  the  machine  they  spoke  briefly  of  the  man 
who  lay  sleeping  peacefully  at  last  in  the  gaunt 
old  house  they  were  leaving  behind  them.  "I'll 
see  that  he  gets  the  right  kind  of  burial,"  said 
Estabrook.  "I've  a  friend  who  will  want  to  look 
after  that,  I'm  sure."  And  then  he  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  soldier-like  figure  of  the  chauffeur  in  front 
of  him,  and  blessed  the  man  for  his  efficiency  and 
the  unhurried  manner  in  which  he  was  making 
every  second  count. 

The  doctor  nodded;  and  he  was  still  ruminat- 
ing on  the  words — "a  funny  guy," — when  the  ma- 
chine completed  its  task  of  eating  its  way  through 
barriers  of  space,  and  brought  up  in  the  heart  of 
the  down-town  district. 

The  doctor  had  a  final  word  to  speak.  "You'd 
better  take  this,"  he  said,  "for  evidence."  And 
he  placed  a  heavy,  cold  object  in  Estabrook's  hand. 
"Our  unfortunate  friend  back  yonder  turned  it 
over  to  me.  It  isn't  loaded — now." 

It  was  a  short-handled  pistol  with  a  name- 
plate  bearing  the  name  of  Pheneas  Drumm.  And 
with  this  in  his  possession  the  newspaperman  knew 
the  evidence  he  had  gathered  was  complete. 

"Here's  my  corner,"  said  Estabrook,  his  eager 
247 


Whispers 

hand  on  the  door  beside  him.  He  looked  at  his 
watch,  tilting  its  face  toward  a  nearby  street  light. 
It  was  fifteen  minutes  past  three.  "Good  night," 
he  said,  "and  thank  you." 

The  doctor  put  forth  his  hand  listlessly  to  help 
close  the  door;  and  then  the  machine  was  gone. 

Estabrook  rushed  into  the  lobby  of  Madam 
Joan's,  making  an  almost  ludicrous  effort  to  seem 
composed.  He  reminded  himself  that  he  really 
must  not  arouse  the  house.  The  elevator  was  no 
longer  running,  and  he  rushed  up  three  flights  of 
stairs,  three  steps  at  a  time,  yet  on  tip-toe.  And 
his  heart  sank  when  he  reached  his  own  door,  for 
beyond  that  door  not  a  breath  of  sound  was 
audible. 

Yet  when  he  had  opened  the  door  his  face  be- 
came radiant.  They  hadn't  gone  yet ! 

Cape  was  lying,  fully  dressed,  on  Estabrook's 
bed,  sound  asleep ;  and  Meade,  who  seemingly  had 
just  arisen  from  his  chair,  was  moving  toward  the 
bed  as  if  the  time  had  come  to  awaken  the  sleeper. 
He  turned  at  the  sound  of  Estabrook's  entrance. 
"We  were  just  getting  ready  to  start,"  he  said. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Estabrook.  "I've  certain 
things  to  explain  to  you.  Will  you  sit  down?1* 
He  glanced  anxiously  at  the  bed.  It  had  occurred 
to  him  that  it  would  be  a  very  fine  thing  if  Cape 
remained  asleep  for  the  time  being.  And  then 
he  added,  with  a  kind  of  inscrutable  glance  at  both 
officers,  one  after  the  other — "We've  been  play- 

248 


What  the  Morning  Brought 

ing  a  sort  of  farce  here,  you  two  and  myself.  I 
won't  go  into  the  nature  of  it  just  now.  I'll  only 
say  that  it's  time  to  get  down  to  business.  You'll 
excuse  me,  I  hope,  for  misleading  you;  but  he's 
not  the  man  you're  after."  He  nodded  toward 
Cape.  "Your  man  is  in  a  house  out  on  the  Mor- 
gan Ford  Road.  Unfortunately,  he  has  just  died. 
I've  his  confession,  properly  witnessed.  I  would 
suggest  that  you  go  out  to  the  house  I've  men- 
tioned and  verify  what  I've  told  you.  You  ought 
to  have  a  talk  with  the  proprietor.  And  then 
you  can  make  your  report  to  the  chief  to-morrow 
accordingly." 

Officer  Meade  smiled  complacently.  "What's 
this?"  he  asked. 

"It's  the  truth,"  declared  Estat>rook. 

"And  you  want  to  tell  me  that  cub  there" — 
with  a  jerk  of  his  head  toward  the  bed — "has  been 
stalling?  Get  out!  He's  the  man  we  arrested 
and  he's  the  man  we  want." 

Estabrook  produced  the  written  confession  he 
had  brought  back  with  him.  "You  might  exam- 
ine this,"  he  said,  unfolding  it  and  holding  it  be- 
fore the  officer's  eyes. 

"I  don't  need  to.  I'll  take  it  along  and  show 
it  to  the  chief  to-morrow,  if  you  like ;  but  my  busi- 
ness is  with  this  fellow  on  the  bed." 

"But — read  it!"  insisted  Estabrook. 

The  officer  read  it,  his  companion  looking  over 
249 


Whispers 

his  shoulder.  But  the  sheet  of  paper  still  re- 
mained in  Estabrook's  hands. 

"Brinsmade!"  exclaimed  Meade  at  last.  He 
was  impressed  now.  It  seemed  that  Brinsmade 
was  a  physician  known  to  everyone. 

And  then  Office  Hankins  exclaimed — "Old  Pete 
Moss  1"  And  by  way  of  explanation  he  informed 
his  fellow  officer  that  he  had  walked  a  beat  in  the 
Morgan  Ford  neighborhood  a  year  ago,  and  that 
he  knew  Pete  Moss  very  well — old  Moss,  pro- 
prietor of  a  rooming  house.  "And  his  name  on 
any  document  would  make  it  genuine  to  me,"  he 
added. 

Meade  wavered  slightly.  "I  might  take  that 
along  and  show  it  to  the  chief,"  he  repeated. 

"No,"  said  Estabrook,  "I  couldn't  let  you  have 
it  to-night.  I  might  have  to  produce  that  at  the 
office.  Besides,  this  business  is  largely  a  matter 
between  the  chief  and  me.  I'll  show  it  to  him 
to-morrow." 

But  Meade's  resolution  became  strengthened 
again.  He  shook  his  head.  "All  right,"  he 
said,  "you  can  do  what  you  think  best  to-morrow. 
But  we're  going  to  take  our  man  along  to-night. 
We've  made  the  arrest  and  there's  nothing  to  do 
but  to  take  him  to  the  station.  If  he's  not  the 
man  wanted,  a  little  investigation  will  get  his  re- 
lease to-morrow.  But  to-night  he  goes  with  us." 

Cape  murmured  where  he  lay  on  the  bed,  and 
moved  uneasily.  Meade  looked  at  his  watch. 

250 


What  the  Morning  Brought 

Three-thirty — the  hour  at  which  he  had  been  di- 
rected to  bring  his  prisoner  to  the  station. 

But  again  Estabrook  lifted  a  detaining  hand. 
He  couldn't  think  of  permitting  Cape  to  go  to  a 
cell  after  all.  Not  that  it  would  matter  so  much 
in  the  long  run,  but  for  the  moment  it  would  give 
a  complete  warrant  to  the  News  for  the  story  it 
was  printing.  That  story  which  had  been  spir- 
ited away  almost  from  under  his  eyes — at  least 
from  under  the  eyes  of  the  two  officers. 

And  then  he  realized  that  a  weapon  had  been 
placed  in  his  hands. 

"All  right,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "you  may  take 
Mr.  Cape  to  the  station  if  you  like,  though  I  as- 
sure you  you're  making  a  mistake.  But  before 
you  go,  please  .  .  .  there's  a  little  matter  I  must 
ask  you  to  explain.  When  I  tell  the  chief  to-mor- 
row that  you  permitted  a  stranger  to  enter  my 
room — this  room  here — during  my  absence  and 
take  away  certain  documents,  thereby  ruining  my 
plans — what  do  you  imagine  he  will  say?" 

The  two  officers  glanced  at  each  other.  It  was 
Meade  who  said — 

"But  he  had  your  authority  to  come  into  the 


room!' 


"He  had  not.  I  can  only  guess  who  he  was. 
I  didn't  know  of  his  being  here  until  hours  after- 
wards." 

"But  how " 

"The  fact  is,"  continued  Estabrook,  "that  the 
251 


Whispers 

only  good  you  could  possibly  have  accomplished 
by  being  here  was  to  prevent  the  very  thing  which 
you  permitted  to  occur.  My  whole  purpose  in 
carrying  on  this  affair  secretly  was  to  insure  the 
safety  of  the  information  contained  in  that  en- 
velope which  you  permitted  a  stranger  to  remove 
from  before  your  eyes." 

Again  Meade  looked  at  Hankins.  And  then 
he  smiled.  "I  see,"  he  said.  "Well,  Mr.  Esta- 
brook,  perhaps  I  was  a  little  hasty  in  deciding  that 
we'd  be  compelled  to  take  Mr.  Cap'e  to  the  sta- 
tion. Since  you  assure  us  that  a  mistake  has  been 
made "  He  made  a  signal  to  his  compan- 
ion, and  both  moved  toward  the  door.  "We'll 
just  let  the  matter  rest  where  it  is.  After  all,  as 
you  said,  it's  mainly  a  matter  between  the  chief 
and  yourself.  That's  what  we  understood  from 
the  beginning."  But  at  the  door  he  turned.  "But 
maybe  you'd  not  find  it  necessary  to  speak  to  the 
chief  about  that  fellow  coming  into  the  room. 
The  fact  is,  he  had  so  much  nerve  with  him  that 
I  didn't  think  what  he  was  about  until  he  was 
gone." 

Estabrook  seemed  to  consider.  "Perhaps  I'll 
not  find  it  necessary  to  speak  to  the  chief  about  it 
after  all,"  he  said  finally.  And  then — "But  won't 
you  gentlemen  have  a  smoke  before  you  go?" 

He  brought  the  box  of  cigars.  Meade  took  a 
cigar  and  lit  it.  He  was  immediately  puffing 
away  in  a  finely  jaunty  manner.  But  Officer  Han« 

252 


What  the  Morning  Brought 

kins  did  not  wish  to  smoke  just  then,  it  seemed. 
He  took  the  proffered  cigar  and  dropped  it  into 
his  pocket  with  a  practised  air.  And  then  Esta- 
brook  closed  the  door  behind  them. 

Alone  in  the  room,  his  first  impulse  was  to  rush 
to  the  bed,  to  drag  Cape  from  it,  to  dance  about 
him,  to  tell  him  the  good  news.  And  then  an 
invisible  hand  stayed  him.  Cape's  face  was 
turned  toward  him  now.  And  it  seemed  so  amaz- 
ingly smooth  and  young  and  wistful.  Sadness 
was  the  quality  which  had  become  his  habitual 
garb  of  late.  Estabrook  remained  looking  down 
at  the  slumbering  youth  for  a  long  moment.  Then 
he  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  suppressed  a 
yawn.  He  took  out  his  watch  and  began  to  wind 
it.  It  seemed  to  be  nearly  run  down.  And  then 
he  took  a  seat  in  the  most  comfortable  chair  in 
the  room.  He  moved  the  chair  a  time  or  two  as 
if  it  weren't  quite  placed  to  suit  him.  Presently 
he  had  it  over  against  the  wall,  where  he  could 
rest  his  feet  on  the  window  sill. 

For  a  long  time  he  pondered;  and  then  he 
nodded;  and  then  he  slept. 

He  was  awakened  by  Cape's  eyes  gazing  at 
him,  startled,  yet  forlorn,  and  by  Cape's  voice 
crying  out  in  agonized  tones — "Oh,  what's  hap- 
pened?" 

He  got  up  sleepily  and  rubbed  his  eyes.  A 
shaft  of  sunlight  fell  across  the  floor — a  very 

253 


Whispers 

short  shaft.  He  thought  it  must  be  very  late — 
perhaps  nearly  noon.  He  turned  and  gazed  into 
Cape's  eyes.  "Happened?"  he  repeated.  How 
could  he  tell  Cape  in  a  word  what  had  happened? 
"This  is  what  has  happened:  the  man  who  slew 
your  uncle  Pheneas  Drumm  died  in  this  city  early 
this  morning.  You're  no  more  guilty  of  the  crime 
than  I  am.  There  isn't  a  shadow  hangs  over  you. 
You're  innocent — and  you're  free." 

He  went  to  the  window,  opening  it  wide.  He 
leaned  out  until  a  newsboy  on  the  corner  caught 
sight  of  him.  And  then  he  made  a  signal.  A 
moment  later  he  was  reading  his  own  story  in 
the  Fidette — really  cleverly  displayed,  after  all. 
And  with  a  light  almost  of  incredulity  in  his  eyes 
he  was  reading  the  monstrously  erroneous  story 
in  the  News. 

"Here,"  he  said,  thrusting  the  Vidette  into 
Cape's  hands.  "Go  to  your  room  and  read  it. 
And  take  my  word  for  it,  no  matter  what  you  see 
anywhere  else.  It's  the  real  story.  I  know,  for 
I  wrote  it.  Good-by."  He  almost  literally 
thrust  Cape  out  of  the  room. 

He  was  tremendously  eager  to  get  to  the  of- 
fice, to  talk  to  Campbell,  to  explain  things.  But 
Campbell  wouldn't  be  down  for  a  long  time  yet. 
There  wouldn't  be  a  soul  about  the  office. 

He  turned  about,  taking  in  the  room  in  which 
he  stood.  It  would  be  his  last  night  in  that  room. 
He  didn't  like  the  place — and  he  didn't  like 

254 


What  the  Morning  Brought 

Madam  Joan.  He  would  clear  out  that  very  min- 
ute. He  had  only  to  put  his  hat  on  and  all  his 
possessions  would  be  in  hand. 

He  went  to  the  cabinet  and  looked  into  it,  to 
make  sure.  It  contained  nothing.  He  opened 
the  little  compartment  above.  And  suddenly  he 
smiled.  His  eyes  were  resting  on  a  phonograph 
of  a  long-ago  model,  with  a  waxen  cylinder.  He 
recalled  the  one  occasion  when  he  had  used  it,  and 
Cape's  incredulous  expression  returned  to  him. 
He  closed  the  door.  He  shouldn't  want  the  mis- 
erable old  phonograph  again. 

He  was  going  out  of  the  room — for  good  and 
all — when  he  ran  into  Cape.  "You  know  I  can't 
sleep,"  said  Cape.  "I've  slept  enough.  And — 
where  are  you  going?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  I'm  through  with  Madam 
Joan's.  Im  leaving." 

"Well,  wait  a  minute  for  me,"  said  Cape;  "for 
if  you  are,  then  I'm  leaving,  too.  I'm  going  with 
you." 

"You're  going  with  me?     Where?" 

"I  don't  know.  Anywhere.  You  see,  we've 
got  a  lot  to  talk  about." 

"I  suppose  so.     You  want  me  to  explain    •     " 

"Yes,  that,  of  course.  Though  I  begin  to  see 
how  it  might  have  happened.  It's  funny  such  a 
thing  never  occurred  to  me,  isn't  it?  But — you 
mustn't  take  offense,  you  know.  What  I  really 

255 


Whispers 

want  to  talk  about  is — is  a  couple  of — of  part- 
nerships 1" 

Madam  Joan  was  just  coming  up  the  stairs  as 
they  descended.  She  was  coming  to  summon 
Monsieur  Estabrook.  "A  call  on  the  telephone," 
she  said. 

Over  the  wire  Estabrook  heard  a  rasping  voice 
inquire — "Is  that  you,  Whispers?" 

He  stiffened  with  indignation;  and  then  he  re- 
laxed. It  was  the  voice  of  Beakman.  "It's  Es- 
tabrook," he  replied  shortly. 

"Estabrook,  yes.  I've  just  gotten  up  from  my 
virtuous  couch,  Estabrook,"  he  said. 

"A  quaint  expression,  that,"  said  Estabrook. 
"Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"That's  a  very  excellent  story  you've  got  in  the 
News  this  morning.  I'm  much  obliged  1"  contin- 
ued the  rasping  voice. 

"It's  a  much  better  one  I've  got  in  the  Fidette. 
You're  welcome." 

He  could  feel  that  Beakman,  startled,  was  lis- 
tening for  him  to  continue.  And  he  added,  "I 
don't  want  to  dump  any  scrap  iron  into  that  vir- 
tuous couch  of  yours,  Beakman,  but  I'm  afraid 
your  people  face  an  awful  libel  suit  if  you  printed 
that  absurd  rubbish  you  stole  from  me  last  night. 
Good-by."  And  he  allowed  the  telephone  re- 
ceiver to  slip  back  quietly  into  its  place. 

256 


Chapter  XXIX 
Conclusion 

A  MONTH  later  Campbell  was  seated  at  his 
desk  late  at  night,  entertaining  a  friend — 
not  a  newspaper  man — who  had  dropped  in  after 
the  theater.  The  work  of  the  day  was  done  and 
most  of  the  reporters  had  left  the  office.  The 
rumbling  of  the  presses  could  be  heard  down  in 
the  basement.  An  early  edition  of  the  Vidette  was 
being  run  off. 

Campbell,  as  he  sat  confronting  his  caller,  fair- 
ly radiated  happiness  and  contentment. 

"It's  a  great  life  you  fellows  lead,"  remarked 
his  friend,  regarding  him  with  pleasantly  musing 
eyes,  "a  fascinating  life." 

"It  is,"  agreed  Campbell  unaffectedly,  smiling 
back  at  him. 

"Yet  I  don't  know  that  I  envy  you,"  continued 
the  other.  "I've  an  idea  you  must  get  a  wrong 
point  of  view  in  a  lot  of  ways.  The  rush  and  ex- 
citement of  it  all,  and  the  restfessness — it  must 
seem  to  you,  little  by  little,  that  the  world  is  noth- 
ing but  a  brawling  tavern." 

The  smiling  expression  remained  in  Campbell's 
eyes.  "But  doesn't  that  pretty  nearly  describe 
life?"  he  asked;  " — a  'brawling  tavern' ?" 

257 


Whispers 

"It  doesn't  for  me." 

But  Campbell  went  on,  evidently  pleased  with 
the  figure:  "With  a  few  sages  sitting  apart  at 
distant  tables,  trying  not  to  be  too  greatly  dis- 
turbed by  the  less  experienced  guests?" 

His  friend  slowly  shook  his  head.  "It's  far- 
fetched," he  declared.  "It's  a  romantic  concep- 
tion of  an  abnormal  life." 

"Abnormal?"  echoed  Campbell;  "you  mean  the 
life  of  newspaper  men?" 

"Look  at  it  yourself.  You're  an  exception,  of 
course.  But  think  of  the  army  of  average  re- 
porters :  their  petty,  habitual  cynicism,  their  cock- 
sure attitude  toward  life  as  a  thing  of  shams  and 
pretenses." 

"Ah,"  said  Campbell  in  a  changed  tone,  "I 
see  them  differently.  I  think  of  their  homeless- 
ness,  and  yet  of  a  certain  blitheness  about  them — 
as  if  they  were  too  large,  too  universal,  to  require 
a  little  sheltered  corner  anywhere.  When  one 
of  them  takes  his  hat  into  his  hand  he  is  a  sailor 
with  his  ship,  a  soldier  with  his  sword,  a  crusader 
with  his  cause.  What  if  there  be  a  certain  irre- 
pressibleness  about  them?  Nature  gives  to  each 
of  us  the  armor  that  we  need."  His  eyes  slowly 
beamed  as  he  added,  "You  ought  to  have  known 
Whispers!" 

He  mused  a  moment;  and  then  in  response  to 
his  friend's  inquiring  glance  he  continued: 

"His  real  name  was  Estabrook.  He  was  one 
258 


Conclusion 

of  my  reporters  until  recently.  The  oddest  chap 
I  ever  knew,  I  think.  I  couldn't  hope  to  describe 
him.  But — I  happen  to  think  of  a  sort  of  illus- 
tration. He  was  on  the  street  one  day  talking 
to  a  United  States  Senator  from  one  of  the  rural 
states.  You  know  in  the  very  nature  of  things  a 
newspaper  man  must  waste  a  good  deal  of  his 
time.  Well,  along  came  a  mendicant — a  raw- 
boned  Irishman  who  probably  hadn't  done  a  day's 
work  in  .years.  He  sized  up  Estabrook  and  the 
senator,  and  he  spoke  to  Estabrook.  'Excuse  me, 
brother,'  he  said,  'but  could  I  speak  to  you?' 
'Sure,  Mike !'  was  Estabrook's  reply.  The  man's 
name  must  have  been  Mike,  it  seemed — his  face 
lit  up  so  quickly;  as  if  he  had  heard  his  own  name 
for  the  first  time  in  ages.  And  he  said:  'Could 
you  spare  me  a  dime  ?  I'll  tell  you  the  truth — I 
want  to  buy  a  drink.  I  need  a  drink  bad.'  And 
Estabrook  gave  him  a  coin.  Til  give  you  the 
price,'  he  said;  and  then  with  mock  solemnity  he 
added,  'but  be  sure  you  don't  go  and  buy  food 
with  it!'  The  mendicant  gave  him  back  the  beam- 
ing glance  of  a  brother — a  brother  born  in  an- 
other town.  And  then  he  was  lost  in  the  crowd." 

"The  point  being ?"  asked  Campbell's  visi- 
tor. 

"The  point  being  that  there's  a  deeper  cynicism 
which  holds  that  evil  is  just  a  sham — not  merely 
that  there  are  shams  in  goodness  or  greatness." 

They  remained  silent  a  moment,  listening  to 

259 


Whispers 

the  rumbling  of  the  presses  down  in  the  basement ; 
and  then  Campbell's  caller  asked: 

"What  became  of  him — your  benevolent 
cynic?" 

"The  precious  pair — he  and  the  young  fellow 
Cape,  who  figured  in  the  Drumm  case — went  off 
to  Texas,  or  Oklahoma,  or  somewhere,  last  week. 
Cape  insisted  on  lending  him  all  the  money  he 
needed  for  a  venture  he'd  gotten  into.  It  was 
Cape's  idea  to  make  him  an  outright  present  of 
the  money,  but  Estabrook,  it  seemed,  wouldn't 
listen  to  that.  He  declared  that  just  the  loan  of 
it  would  place  him  in  a  position  where  he'd  be 
guiltily  wealthy  in  a  few  years.  And  really  I  don't 
doubt  it.  As  security  for  the  loan  he  gave  Cape 
an  interest  in  his  business — a  newspaper  in  a  town 
that's  growing  at  the  rate  of  a  thousand  a  day. 
I  fully  expect  the  thing  to  turn  out  just  as  Esta- 
brook says  it  will." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  in  an  attitude  so 
completely  cheerful  that  his  visitor  was  prompted 
to  say:  "The  Fidette  is  coming  into  its  own 
pretty  rapidly  these  days,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  amazing,"  said  Campbell  enthusiastically. 
"And  I  admit  I  feel  we  owe  much  of  that  to  Esta- 
brook. He  stayed  on  after  the  Drumm  affair  to 
write  a  series  of  stories  for  me  and  they  were  very 
successful.  And  really,  after  the  News  published 
its  retraction  of  the  story  about  Cape — Cape  ex- 
acted that  they  publish  it  on  the  first  page,  just 

260 


Conclusion 

where  the  original  story  had  appeared,  as  you 
may  remember — it  seemed  that  the  tide  had 
turned  in  our  favor.  We've  got  the  News  on  the 
run.  They've  let  out  Beakman,  but  it  seems  they 
took  that  step  too  late.  The  Vidette  has  gained 
30,000  circulation  in  the  past  thirty  days  and  it's 
still  going  strong."  He  added,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  "I  really  think  Estabrook  woke  us  up  a 
little." 

"A  queer  name — what  did  you  call  him,  Whis- 
pers?" 

"Yes,"  sa^d  Campbell.  "But  he  was  given  an- 
other name  that  I  like  to  remember:  'a  funny 
guy' !  I  am  sure  that  will  stick  to  my  memory. 
Rigjhtly  spoken  it  fits  him  perfectly — a  funny 

guy."  ^ 

He  glanced  behind  him  at  the  clock  on  the 
wall,  and  then  he  pulled  tlie  lid  of  his  desk  down 
for  the  night. 


261 


000  127385 


